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You don't know about me, without you have read a book by the name of
"The Adventures of Tom Sawyer," but that ain't no matter. That book was
made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things
which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I
never seen anybody but lied, one time or another, without it was Aunt
Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly- Tom's Aunt Polly, she
is- and Mary, and the Widow Douglas, is all told about in that book-
which is mostly a true book; with some stretchers, as I said before.
Now the way that the book winds up, is this: Tom and me found the money
that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six
thousand dollars apiece- all gold. It was an awful sight of money when
it was piled up. Well, Judge Thatcher, he took it and put it out at
interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece, all the year round-
more than a body could tell what to do with. The Widow Douglas, she took
me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough
living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and
decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when I couldn't stand it no
longer, I lit out. I got into my old rags, and my sugar-hogshead again,
and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer, he hunted me up and said he
was going to start a band of robbers and I might join if I would go back
to the widow and be respectable. So I went back.
The widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she
called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it.
She put me in them new clothes again, and I couldn't do nothing but
sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing
commenced again. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come
to time. When you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but
you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little
over the victuals, though there wasn't really anything the matter with
them. That is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. In a barrel
of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice
kind of swaps around, and the things go better.
After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the
Bulrushers; and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but
by-and-by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long
time; so then I didn't care no more about him; because I don't take no
stock in dead people.
Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. But she
wouldn't. She said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and I must
try to not do it any more. That is just the way with some people. They
get down on the thing when they don't know nothing about it. Here she
was a bothering about Moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to
anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for
doing a thing that had some good in it. And she took snuff too; of
course that was all right, because she done it herself.
Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had
just come to live with her, and took a set at me now, with a
spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then
the widow made her ease up. I couldn't stood it much longer. Then for an
hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety. Miss Watson would say,
."Don't put your feet up there, Huckleberry"; and "don't scrunch up like
that, Huckleberry- set up straight"; and pretty soon she would say,
"Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry- why don't you try to
behave?" Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I
was there. She got mad, then, but I didn't mean no harm All I wanted
was to go somewheres; all I wanted was a change, I warn't particular.
She said it was wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn't say it for
the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place.
Well, I couldn't see no advantage in going where she was going, so I
made up my mind I wouldn't try for it. But I never said so, because it
would only make trouble, and wouldn't do no good. |
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Now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good
place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all
day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn't thithe good
place. She said all a body would have to do there was to go around all
day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. So I didn't think much
of it. But I never said so. I asked her if she rec
Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome.
By-and-by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then
everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room with a piece of candle
and put it on the table
Then I set down in a chair by the window and
tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use. I felt so
lonesome I most wished I was dead. The stars was shining, and the leaves
rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and I heard an owl, away off,
who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog
crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to
whisper something to me and I couldn't make out what it was, and so it
made the cold shivers run over me. Then away out in the woods I heard
that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about
something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so
can't rest easy in its grave and has to go about that way every night
grieving. I got so down-hearted and scared, I did wish I had some
company. Pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I
flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was
all shriveled up. I didn't need anybody to tell me that was an awful bad
sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook
the clothes off of me. I got up and turned around in my tracks three
times and crossed my breast every time; and then I tied up a little lock
of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. But I hadn't no
confidence. You do that when you've lost a horse-shoe that you've found,
instead of nailing it up over the door, but I hadn't ever heard anybody
say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider.
I set down again, a shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke;
for the house was all as still as death, now, and so the widow wouldn't
know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock away off in the town go
boom- boom- boom-twelve licks- and all still again- stiller than ever.
Pretty soon I heard a twig snap, down in the dark amongst the trees-
something was a stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could
just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. That was good! Says I,
"me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as I could, and then I put out the light and
scrambled out of the window onto the shed. Then I slipped down to the
ground and crawled in amongst the trees, and sure enough there was Tom
Sawyer waiting for me.
Chapter Two |