"One day, while standing upright, addressing his prayers to Jupiter,

Aethon farted in the Capitol. Men laughed, but the Father of the Gods,

offended, condemned the guilty one to dine at home for three nights.

Since that time, miserable Aethon, when he wishes to enter the Capitol,

goes first to Paterclius' privies and farts ten or twenty times. Yet, in

spite of this precautionary crepitation, he salutes Jove with constricted

buttocks." Martial also (Book IV, Epigram LXXX), ridicules a woman who

was subject to the habit, saying,

"Your Bassa, Fabullus, has always a child at her side, calling it her

darling and her plaything; and yet--more wonder--she does not care for

children. What is the reason then. Bassa is apt to fart. (For which

she could blame the unsuspecting infant.)"

The tale is told, too, of a certain woman who performed an aeolian

crepitation at a dinner attended by the witty Monsignieur Dupanloup,

Bishop of Orleans, and that when, to cover up her lapse, she began to

scrape her feet upon the floor, and to make similar noises, the Bishop

said, "Do not trouble to find a rhyme, Madam!"

Nay, worthier names than those of any yet mentioned have discussed the

matter. Herodotus tells of one such which was the precursor to the fall

of an empire and a change of dynasty--that which Amasis discharges while

on horseback, and bids the envoy of Apries, King of Egypt, catch and

deliver to his royal master. Even the exact manner and posture of

Amasis, author of this insult, is described.

St. Augustine (The City of God, XIV:24) cites the instance of a man who

could command his rear trumpet to sound at will, which his learned

commentator fortifies with the example of one who could do so in tune!

Benjamin Franklin, in his "Letter to the Royal Academy of Brussels" has

canvassed suggested remedies for alleviating the stench attendant upon

these discharges:

"My Prize Question therefore should be: To discover some Drug, wholesome

and--not disagreeable, to be mixed with our common food, or sauces, that

shall render the natural discharges of Wind from our Bodies not only

inoffensive, but agreeable as Perfumes.

"That this is not a Chimerical Project & altogether impossible, may

appear from these considerations. That we already have some knowledge of

means capable of varying that smell. He that dines on stale Flesh,

especially with much Addition of Onions, shall be able to afford a stink

that no Company can tolerate; while he that has lived for some time on

Vegetables only, shall have that Breath so pure as to be insensible of

the most delicate Noses; and if he can manage so as to avoid the Report,

he may anywhere give vent to his Griefs, unnoticed. But as there are

many to whom an entire Vegetable Diet would be inconvenient, & as a

little quick Lime thrown into a Jakes will correct the amazing Quantity

of fetid Air arising from the vast Mass of putrid Matter contained in

such Places, and render it pleasing to the Smell, who knows but that a

little Powder of Lime (or some other equivalent) taken in our Food, or

perhaps a Glass of Lime Water drank at Dinner, may have the same Effect

on the Air produced in and issuing from our Bowels?"

One curious commentary on the text is that Elizabeth should be so fond of

investigating into the authorship of the exhalation in question, when she

was inordinately fond of strong and sweet perfumes; in fact, she was

responsible for the tremendous increase in importations of scents into

England during her reign.

"YE BOKE OF YE SIEUR MICHAEL DE MONTAINE"

There is a curious admixture of error and misunderstanding in this part

of the sketch. In the first place, the story is borrowed from Montaigne,

where it is told inaccurately, and then further corrupted in the telling.

It was not the good widows of Perigord who wore the phallus upon their

coifs; it was the young married women, of the district near Montaigne's

home, who paraded it to view upon their foreheads, as a symbol, says our

essayist, "of the joy they derived therefrom." If they became widows,

they reversed its position, and covered it up with the rest of their

head-dress.

The "emperor" mentioned was not an emperor; he was Procolus, a native of

Albengue, on the Genoese coast, who, with Bonosus, led the unsuccessful

rebellion in Gaul against Emperor Probus. Even so keen a commentator as

Cotton has failed to note the error.

The empress (Montaigne does not say "his empress") was Messalina, third

wife of the Emperor Claudius, who was uncle of Caligula and foster-father

to Nero. Furthermore, in her case the charge is that she copulated with

twenty-five in a single night, and not twenty-two, as appears in the

text. Montaigne is right in his statistics, if original sources are

correct, whereas the author erred in transcribing the incident.

As for Proculus, it has been noted that he was associated with Bonosus,

who was as renowned in the field of Bacchus as was Proculus in that of

Venus (Gibbon, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire). The feat of

Proculus is told in his own words, in Vopiscus, (Hist. Augustine, p. 246)

where he recounts having captured one hundred Sarmatian virgins, and

unmaidened ten of them in one night, together with the happenings

subsequent thereto.

Concerning Messalina, there appears to be no question but that she was a

nymphomaniac, and that, while Empress of Rome, she participated in some

fearful debaucheries. The question is what to believe, for much that we

have heard about her is almost certainly apocryphal.

The author from whom Montaigne took his facts is the elder Pliny, who,

in his Natural History, Book X, Chapter 83, says, "Other animals become

sated with veneral pleasures; man hardly knows any satiety. Messalina,

the wife of Claudius Caesar, thinking this a palm quite worthy of an

empress, selected for the purpose of deciding the question, one of the

most notorious women who followed the profession of a hired prostitute;

and the empress outdid her, after continuous intercourse, night and day,

at the twenty-fifth embrace."

But Pliny, notwithstanding his great attainments, was often a retailer of

stale gossip, and in like case was Aurelius Victor, another writer who

heaped much odium on her name. Again, there is a great hiatus in the

Annals of Tacitus, a true historian, at the period covering the earlier

days of the Empress; while Suetonius, bitter as he may be, is little more

than an anecdotist. Juvenal, another of her detractors, is a prejudiced

witness, for he started out to satirize female vice, and naturally aimed

at high places. Dio also tells of Messalina's misdeeds, but his work is

under the same limitations as that of Suetonius. Furthermore, none but

Pliny mentions the excess under consideration.

However, "where there is much smoke there must be a little fire," and

based upon the superimposed testimony of the writers of the period, there

appears little doubt but that Messalina was a nymphomaniac, that she

prostituted herself in the public stews, naked, and with gilded nipples,

and that she did actually marry her chief adulterer, Silius, while

Claudius was absent at Ostia, and that the wedding was consummated in the

presence of a concourse of witnesses. This was "the straw that broke the

camel's back." Claudius hastened back to Rome, Silius was dispatched,

and Messalina, lacking the will-power to destroy herself, was killed when

an officer ran a sword through her abdomen, just as it appeared that

Claudius was about to relent.

"THEN SPAKE YE DAMNED WINDMILL, SIR WALTER"

Raleigh is thoroughly in character here; this observation is quite in

keeping with the general veracity of his account of his travels in

Guiana, one of the most mendacious accounts of adventure ever told.

Naturally, the scholarly researches of Westermarck have failed to

discover this people; perhaps Lady Helen might best be protected among

the Jibaros of Ecuador, where the men marry when approaching forty.

Ben Jonson in his Conversations observed "That Sr. W. Raughlye esteemed

more of fame than of conscience."

YE VIRGIN QUEENE

Grave historians have debated for centuries the pretensions of Elizabeth

to the title, "The Virgin Queen," and it is utterly impossible to dispose

of the issue in a note. However, the weight of opinion appears to be in

the negative. Many and great were the difficulties attending the

marriage of a Protestant princess in those troublous times, and Elizabeth

finally announced that she would become wedded to the English nation,

and she wore a ring in token thereof until her death. However, more or

less open liaisons with Essex and Leicester, as well as a host of lesser

courtiers, her ardent temperament, and her imperious temper, are

indications that cannot be denied in determining any estimate upon the

point in question.

Ben Jonson in his Conversations with William Drummond of Hawthornden

says,

"Queen Elizabeth never saw herself after she became old in a true glass;

they painted her, and sometymes would vermillion her nose. She had

allwayes about Christmass evens set dice that threw sixes or five, and

she knew not they were other, to make her win and esteame herself

fortunate. That she had a membrana on her, which made her uncapable of

man, though for her delight she tried many. At the comming over of

Monsieur, there was a French Chirurgion who took in hand to cut it, yett

fear stayed her, and his death."

It was a subject which again intrigued Clemens when he was abroad with

W. H. Fisher, whom Mark employed to "nose up" everything pertaining to

Queen Elizabeth's manly character.

"'BOCCACCIO HATH A STORY"

The author does not pay any great compliment to Raleigh's memory here.

There is no such tale in all Boccaccio. The nearest related incident

forms the subject matter of Dineo's novel (the fourth) of the First day

of the Decameron.

OLD SR. NICHOLAS THROGMORTON

The incident referred to appears to be Sir Nicholas Throgmorton's trial

for complicity in the attempt to make Lady Jane Grey Queen of England,

a charge of which he was acquitted. This so angered Queen Mary that she

imprisoned him in the Tower, and fined the jurors from one to two

thousand pounds each. Her action terrified succeeding juries, so that

Sir Nicholas's brother was condemned on no stronger evidence than that

which had failed to prevail before. While Sir Nicholas's defense may

have been brilliant, it must be admitted that the evidence was weak.

He was later released from the Tower, and under Elizabeth was one of a

group of commissioners sent by that princess into Scotland, to foment

trouble with Mary, Queen of Scots. When the attempt became known,

Elizabeth repudiated the acts of her agents, but Sir Nicholas, having

anticipated this possibility, had sufficient foresight to secure

endorsement of his plan by the Council, and so outwitted Elizabeth, who

was playing a two-faced role, and Cecil, one of the greatest statesmen

who ever held the post of principal minister. Perhaps it was this

incident to which the company referred, which might in part explain

Elizabeth's rejoinder. However, he had been restored to confidence ere

this, and had served as ambassador to France.

"TO SAVE HIS DOTER'S MAIDENHEDDE"

Elizabeth Throckmorton (or Throgmorton), daughter of Sir Nicholas, was

one of Elizabeth's maids of honor. When it was learned that she had been

debauched by Raleigh, Sir Walter was recalled from his command at sea by

the Queen, and compelled to marry the girl. This was not "in that olde

daie," as the text has it, for it happened only eight years before the

date of this purported "conversation," when Elizabeth was sixty years

old.

PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

The various printings of 1601 reveal how Mark Twain's 'Fireside

Conversation' has become a part of the American printer's lore. But more

important, its many printings indicate that it has become a popular bit

of American folklore, particularly for men and women who have a feeling

for Mark Twain. Apparently it appeals to the typographer, who devotes to

it his worthy art, as well as to the job printer, who may pull a crudely

printed proof. The gay procession of curious printings of 1601 is unique

in the history of American printing.

Indeed, the story of the various printings of 1601 is almost legendary.

In the days of the "jour." printer, so I am told, well-thumbed copies

were carried from print shop to print shop. For more than a quarter

century now it has been one of the chief sources of enjoyment for

printers' devils; and many a young rascal has learned about life from

this Fireside Conversation. It has been printed all over the country,

and if report is to be believed, in foreign countries as well. Because

of the many surreptitious and anonymous printings it is exceedingly

difficult, if not impossible, to compile a complete bibliography. Many

printings lack the name of the publisher, the printer, the place or date

of printing. In many instances some of the data, through the patient

questioning of fellow collectors, has been obtained and supplied.

1. [Date, 1601.] Conversation, as it was by the Social Fireside, in the

Time of the Tudors.

DESCRIPTION: Pamphlet, pp. [ 1 ]-8, without wrappers or cover, measuring

7x8 inches. The title is Set in caps. and small caps.

The excessively rare first printing, printed in Cleveland, 1880, at the

instance of Alexander Gunn, friend of John Hay. Only four copies are

believed to have been printed, of which, it is said now, the only known

copy is located in the Willard S. Morse collection.

2. Date 1601. Conversation, as it was by the Social Fireside, in the

time of the Tudors.

(Mem.--The following is supposed to be an extract from the diary of the

Pepys of that day, the same being cup-bearer to Queen Elizabeth. It is

supposed that he is of ancient and noble lineage; that he despises these

literary canaille; that his soul consumes with wrath to see the Queen

stooping to talk with such; and that the old man feels his nobility

defiled by contact with Shakespeare, etc., and yet he has got to stay

there till Her Majesty chooses to dismiss him.)

DESCRIPTION: Title as above, verso blank; pp. [i]-xi, text; verso p. xi

blank. About 8 x 10 inches, printed on handmade linen paper soaked in

weak coffee, wrappers. The title is set in caps and small caps.

COLOPHON: at the foot of p. xi: Done Att Ye Academie Preffe; M DCCC LXXX

II.

The privately printed West Point edition, the first printing of the text

authorized by Mark Twain, of which but fifty copies were printed. The

story of this printing is fully told in the Introduction.

3. Conversation As It Was By The Social Fire-side In The Time Of The

Tudors from Ye Diary of Ye Cupbearer to her Maisty Queen Elizabeth.

[design] Imprinted by Ye Puritan Press At Ye Sign of Ye Jolly Virgin

1601.

DESCRIPTION: 2 blank leaves; p. [i] blank, p. [ii] fronds., p. [iii]

title [as above], p. [iv] "Mem.", pp. 1-[25] text, I blank leaf. 4 3/4

by 6 1/4 inches, printed in a modern version of the Caxton black letter

type, on M.B.M. French handmade paper. The frontispiece, a woodcut by

A. E. Curtis, is a portrait of the cup-bearer. Bound in buff-grey

boards, buckram back. Cover title reads, in pale red ink, Caxton type,

Conversation As It Was By The Social Fire-side In The Time Of The Tudors.

[The Byway Press, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1901, 120 copies.]

Probably the first published edition.

Later, in 1916, a facsimile edition of this printing was published in

Chicago from plates.

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THE FACTS CONCERNING THE RECENT CARNIVAL OF CRIME IN CONNECTICUT

by Mark Twain

I was feeling blithe, almost jocund. I put a match to my cigar, and just

then the morning's mail was handed in. The first superscription I

glanced at was in a handwriting that sent a thrill of pleasure through

and through me. It was Aunt Mary's; and she was the person I loved and

honored most in all the world, outside of my own household. She had been

my boyhood's idol; maturity, which is fatal to so many enchantments, had

not been able to dislodge her from her pedestal; no, it had only

justified her right to be there, and placed her dethronement permanently

among the impossibilities. To show how strong her influence over me was,

I will observe that long after everybody else's "do-stop-smoking" had

ceased to affect me in the slightest degree, Aunt Mary could still stir

my torpid conscience into faint signs of life when she touched upon the

matter. But all things have their limit in this world. A happy day came

at last, when even Aunt Mary's words could no longer move me. I was not

merely glad to see that day arrive; I was more than glad--I was grateful;

for when its sun had set, the one alloy that was able to mar my enjoyment

of my aunt's society was gone. The remainder of her stay with us that

winter was in every way a delight. Of course she pleaded with me just as

earnestly as ever, after that blessed day, to quit my pernicious habit,

but to no purpose whatever; the moment she opened the subject I at once

became calmly, peacefully, contentedly indifferent--absolutely,

adamantinely indifferent. Consequently the closing weeks of that

memorable visit melted away as pleasantly as a dream, they were so

freighted for me with tranquil satisfaction. I could not have enjoyed my

pet vice more if my gentle tormentor had been a smoker herself, and an

advocate of the practice. Well, the sight of her handwriting reminded me

that I way getting very hungry to see her again. I easily guessed what I

should find in her letter. I opened it. Good! just as I expected; she

was coming! Coming this very day, too, and by the morning train; I might

expect her any moment.

I said to myself, "I am thoroughly happy and content now. If my most

pitiless enemy could appear before me at this moment, I would freely

right any wrong I may have done him."

Straightway the door opened, and a shriveled, shabby dwarf entered. He

was not more than two feet high. He seemed to be about forty years old.

Every feature and every inch of him was a trifle out of shape; and so,

while one could not put his finger upon any particular part and say,

"This is a conspicuous deformity," the spectator perceived that this

little person was a deformity as a whole--a vague, general, evenly

blended, nicely adjusted deformity. There was a fox-like cunning in the

face and the sharp little eyes, and also alertness and malice. And yet,

this vile bit of human rubbish seemed to bear a sort of remote and

ill-defined resemblance to me! It was dully perceptible in the mean

form, the countenance, and even the clothes, gestures, manner, and

attitudes of the creature. He was a farfetched, dim suggestion of a

burlesque upon me, a caricature of me in little. One thing about him

struck me forcibly and most unpleasantly: he was covered all over with a

fuzzy, greenish mold, such as one sometimes sees upon mildewed bread.

The sight of it was nauseating.

He stepped along with a chipper air, and flung himself into a doll's

chair in a very free-and-easy way, without waiting to be asked. He

tossed his hat into the waste-basket. He picked up my old chalk pipe

from the floor, gave the stem a wipe or two on his knee, filled the bowl

from the tobacco-box at his side, and said to me in a tone of pert

command:

"Gimme a match!"

I blushed to the roots of my hair; partly with indignation, but mainly

because it somehow seemed to me that this whole performance was very like

an exaggeration of conduct which I myself had sometimes been guilty of in

my intercourse with familiar friends--but never, never with strangers, I

observed to myself. I wanted to kick the pygmy into the fire, but some

incomprehensible sense of being legally and legitimately under his

authority forced me to obey his order. He applied the match to the pipe,

took a contemplative whiff or two, and remarked, in an irritatingly

familiar way:

"Seems to me it's devilish odd weather for this time of year."

I flushed again, and in anger and humiliation as before; for the language

was hardly an exaggeration of some that I have uttered in my day, and

moreover was delivered in a tone of voice and with an exasperating drawl

that had the seeming of a deliberate travesty of my style. Now there is

nothing I am quite so sensitive about as a mocking imitation of my

drawling infirmity of speech. I spoke up sharply and said:

"Look here, you miserable ash-cat! you will have to give a little more

attention to your manners, or I will throw you out of the window!"

The manikin smiled a smile of malicious content and security, puffed a

whiff of smoke contemptuously toward me, and said, with a still more

elaborate drawl:

"Come--go gently now; don't put on too many airs with your betters."

This cool snub rasped me all over, but it seemed to subjugate me, too,

for a moment. The pygmy contemplated me awhile with his weasel eyes,

and then said, in a peculiarly sneering way:

"You turned a tramp away from your door this morning."

I said crustily:

"Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn't. How do you know?"

"Well, I know. It isn't any matter how I know."

"Very well. Suppose I did turn a tramp away from the door--what of it?"

"Oh, nothing; nothing in particular. Only you lied to him."

"I didn't! That is, I--"

"Yes, but you did; you lied to him."

I felt a guilty pang--in truth, I had felt it forty times before that

tramp had traveled a block from my door--but still I resolved to make a

show of feeling slandered; so I said:

"This is a baseless impertinence. I said to the tramp--"

"There--wait. You were about to lie again. I know what you said to him.

You said the cook was gone down-town and there was nothing left from

breakfast. Two lies. You knew the cook was behind the door, and plenty

of provisions behind her."

This astonishing accuracy silenced me; and it filled me with wondering

speculations, too, as to how this cub could have got his information.

Of course he could have culled the conversation from the tramp, but by

what sort of magic had he contrived to find out about the concealed cook?

Now the dwarf spoke again:

"It was rather pitiful, rather small, in you to refuse to read that poor

young woman's manuscript the other day, and give her an opinion as to its

literary value; and she had come so far, too, and so hopefully. Now

wasn't it?"

I felt like a cur! And I had felt so every time the thing had recurred

to my mind, I may as well confess. I flushed hotly and said:

"Look here, have you nothing better to do than prowl around prying into

other people's business? Did that girl tell you that?"

"Never mind whether she did or not. The main thing is, you did that

contemptible thing. And you felt ashamed of it afterward. Aha! you feel

ashamed of it now!"

This was a sort of devilish glee. With fiery earnestness I responded:

"I told that girl, in the kindest, gentlest way, that I could not consent

to deliver judgment upon any one's manuscript, because an individual's

verdict was worthless. It might underrate a work of high merit and lose

it to the world, or it might overrate a trashy production and so open the

way for its infliction upon the world: I said that the great public was

the only tribunal competent to sit in judgment upon a literary effort,

and therefore it must be best to lay it before that tribunal in the

outset, since in the end it must stand or fall by that mighty court's

decision anyway."

"Yes, you said all that. So you did, you juggling, small-souled

shuffler! And yet when the happy hopefulness faded out of that poor

girl's face, when you saw her furtively slip beneath her shawl the scroll

she had so patiently and honestly scribbled at--so ashamed of her darling

now, so proud of it before--when you saw the gladness go out of her eyes

and the tears come there, when she crept away so humbly who had come

so--"

"Oh, peace! peace! peace! Blister your merciless tongue, haven't all

these thoughts tortured me enough without your coming here to fetch them

back again!"

Remorse! remorse! It seemed to me that it would eat the very heart out

of me! And yet that small fiend only sat there leering at me with joy

and contempt, and placidly chuckling. Presently he began to speak again.

Every sentence was an accusation, and every accusation a truth. Every

clause was freighted with sarcasm and derision, every slow-dropping word

burned like vitriol. The dwarf reminded me of times when I had flown at

my children in anger and punished them for faults which a little inquiry

would have taught me that others, and not they, had committed.

He reminded me of how I had disloyally allowed old friends to be traduced

in my hearing, and been too craven to utter a word in their defense.

He reminded me of many dishonest things which I had done; of many which I

had procured to be done by children and other irresponsible persons; of

some which I had planned, thought upon, and longed to do, and been kept

from the performance by fear of consequences only. With exquisite

cruelty he recalled to my mind, item by item, wrongs and unkindnesses I

had inflicted and humiliations I had put upon friends since dead, "who

died thinking of those injuries, maybe, and grieving over them," he

added, by way of poison to the stab.

"For instance," said he, "take the case of your younger brother, when you

two were boys together, many a long year ago. He always lovingly trusted

in you with a fidelity that your manifold treacheries were not able to

shake. He followed you about like a dog, content to suffer wrong and

abuse if he might only be with you; patient under these injuries so long

as it was your hand that inflicted them. The latest picture you have of

him in health and strength must be such a comfort to you! You pledged

your honor that if he would let you blindfold him no harm should come to

him; and then, giggling and choking over the rare fun of the joke, you

led him to a brook thinly glazed with ice, and pushed him in; and how you

did laugh! Man, you will never forget the gentle, reproachful look he

gave you as he struggled shivering out, if you live a thousand years!

Oh! you see it now, you see it now!"

"Beast, I have seen it a million times, and shall see it a million more!

and may you rot away piecemeal, and suffer till doomsday what I suffer

now, for bringing it back to me again!"

The dwarf chuckled contentedly, and went on with his accusing history of

my career. I dropped into a moody, vengeful state, and suffered in

silence under the merciless lash. At last this remark of his gave me a

sudden rouse:

"Two months ago, on a Tuesday, you woke up, away in the night, and fell

to thinking, with shame, about a peculiarly mean and pitiful act of yours

toward a poor ignorant Indian in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains in the

winter of eighteen hundred and--"

"Stop a moment, devil! Stop! Do you mean to tell me that even my very

thoughts are not hidden from you?"

"It seems to look like that. Didn't you think the thoughts I have just

mentioned?"

"If I didn't, I wish I may never breathe again! Look here, friend--look

me in the eye. Who are you?"

"Well, who do you think?"

"I think you are Satan himself. I think you are the devil."

"No."

"No? Then who can you be?"

"Would you really like to know?"

"Indeed I would."

"Well, I am your Conscience!"

In an instant I was in a blaze of joy and exultation. I sprang at the

creature, roaring:

"Curse you, I have wished a hundred million times that you were tangible,

and that I could get my hands on your throat once! Oh, but I will wreak

a deadly vengeance on--"

Folly! Lightning does not move more quickly than my Conscience did!

He darted aloft so suddenly that in the moment my fingers clutched the

empty air he was already perched on the top of the high bookcase, with

his thumb at his nose in token of derision. I flung the poker at him,

and missed. I fired the bootjack. In a blind rage I flew from place to

place, and snatched and hurled any missile that came handy; the storm of

books, inkstands, and chunks of coal gloomed the air and beat about the

manikin's perch relentlessly, but all to no purpose; the nimble figure

dodged every shot; and not only that, but burst into a cackle of

sarcastic and triumphant laughter as I sat down exhausted. While I

puffed and gasped with fatigue and excitement, my Conscience talked to

this effect:

"My good slave, you are curiously witless--no, I mean characteristically

so. In truth, you are always consistent, always yourself, always an ass.

Other wise it must have occurred to you that if you attempted this murder

with a sad heart and a heavy conscience, I would droop under the

burdening in influence instantly. Fool, I should have weighed a ton, and

could not have budged from the floor; but instead, you are so cheerfully

anxious to kill me that your conscience is as light as a feather; hence I

am away up here out of your reach. I can almost respect a mere ordinary

sort of fool; but you pah!"

I would have given anything, then, to be heavyhearted, so that I could

get this person down from there and take his life, but I could no more be

heavy-hearted over such a desire than I could have sorrowed over its

accomplishment. So I could only look longingly up at my master, and rave

at the ill luck that denied me a heavy conscience the one only time that

I had ever wanted such a thing in my life. By and by I got to musing

over the hour's strange adventure, and of course my human curiosity began

to work. I set myself to framing in my mind some questions for this

fiend to answer. Just then one of my boys entered, leaving the door open

behind him, and exclaimed:

"My! what has been going on here? The bookcase is all one riddle of--"

I sprang up in consternation, and shouted:

"Out of this! Hurry! jump! Fly! Shut the door! Quick, or my

Conscience will get away!"

The door slammed to, and I locked it. I glanced up and was grateful, to

the bottom of my heart, to see that my owner was still my prisoner. I

said:

"Hang you, I might have lost you! Children are the heedlessest

creatures. But look here, friend, the boy did not seem to notice you at

all; how is that?"

"For a very good reason. I am invisible to all but you."

I made a mental note of that piece of information with a good deal of

satisfaction. I could kill this miscreant now, if I got a chance, and no

one would know it. But this very reflection made me so lighthearted that

my Conscience could hardly keep his seat, but was like to float aloft

toward the ceiling like a toy balloon. I said, presently:

"Come, my Conscience, let us be friendly. Let us fly a flag of truce for

a while. I am suffering to ask you some questions."

"Very well. Begin."

"Well, then, in the first place, why were you never visible to me

before?"

"Because you never asked to see me before; that is, you never asked in

the right spirit and the proper form before. You were just in the right

spirit this time, and when you called for your most pitiless enemy I was

that person by a very large majority, though you did not suspect it."

"Well, did that remark of mine turn you into flesh and blood?"

"No. It only made me visible to you. I am unsubstantial, just as other

spirits are."

This remark prodded me with a sharp misgiving.

If he was unsubstantial, how was I going to kill him? But I dissembled,

and said persuasively:

"Conscience, it isn't sociable of you to keep at such a distance. Come

down and take another smoke."

This was answered with a look that was full of derision, and with this

observation added:

"Come where you can get at me and kill me? The invitation is declined

with thanks."

"All right," said I to myself; "so it seems a spirit can be killed, after

all; there will be one spirit lacking in this world, presently, or I lose

my guess." Then I said aloud:

"Friend--"

"There; wait a bit. I am not your friend. I am your enemy; I am not

your equal, I am your master, Call me 'my lord,' if you please. You are

too familiar."

"I don't like such titles. I am willing to call you, sir. That is as

far as--"

"We will have no argument about this. Just obey, that is all. Go on

with your chatter."

"Very well, my lord--since nothing but my lord will suit you--I was going

to ask you how long you will be visible to me?"

"Always!"

I broke out with strong indignation: "This is simply an outrage. That is

what I think of it! You have dogged, and dogged, and dogged me, all the

days of my life, invisible. That was misery enough, now to have such a

looking thing as you tagging after me like another shadow all the rest of

my day is an intolerable prospect. You have my opinion my lord, make the

most of it."

"My lad, there was never so pleased a conscience in this world as I was

when you made me visible. It gives me an inconceivable advantage. Now I

can look you straight in the eye, and call you names, and leer at you,

jeer at you, sneer at you; and you know what eloquence there is in

visible gesture and expression, more especially when the effect is

heightened by audible speech. I shall always address you henceforth in

your o-w-n s-n-i-v-e-l-i-n-g d-r-a-w-l--baby!"

I let fly with the coal-hod. No result. My lord said:

"Come, come! Remember the flag of truce!"

"Ah, I forgot that. I will try to be civil; and you try it, too, for a

novelty. The idea of a civil conscience! It is a good joke; an

excellent joke. All the consciences I have ever heard of were nagging,

badgering, fault-finding, execrable savages! Yes; and always in a sweat

about some poor little insignificant trifle or other--destruction catch

the lot of them, I say! I would trade mine for the smallpox and seven

kinds of consumption, and be glad of the chance. Now tell me, why is it

that a conscience can't haul a man over the coals once, for an offense,

and then let him alone? Why is it that it wants to keep on pegging at

him, day and night and night and day, week in and week out, forever and

ever, about the same old thing? There is no sense in that, and no reason

in it. I think a conscience that will act like that is meaner than the

very dirt itself."

"Well, WE like it; that suffices."

"Do you do it with the honest intent to improve a man?"

That question produced a sarcastic smile, and this reply:

"No, sir. Excuse me. We do it simply because it is 'business.' It is

our trade. The purpose of it is to improve the man, but we are merely

disinterested agents. We are appointed by authority, and haven't

anything to say in the matter. We obey orders and leave the consequences

where they belong. But I am willing to admit this much: we do crowd the

orders a trifle when we get a chance, which is most of the time.

We enjoy it. We are instructed to remind a man a few times of an error;

and I don't mind acknowledging that we try to give pretty good measure.

And when we get hold of a man of a peculiarly sensitive nature, oh, but

we do haze him! I have consciences to come all the way from China and

Russia to see a person of that kind put through his paces, on a special

occasion. Why, I knew a man of that sort who had accidentally crippled a

mulatto baby; the news went abroad, and I wish you may never commit

another sin if the consciences didn't flock from all over the earth to

enjoy the fun and help his master exorcise him. That man walked the

floor in torture for forty-eight hours, without eating or sleeping, and

then blew his brains out. The child was perfectly well again in three

weeks."

"Well, you are a precious crew, not to put it too strong. I think I

begin to see now why you have always been a trifle inconsistent with me.

In your anxiety to get all the juice you can out of a sin, you make a man

repent of it in three or four different ways. For instance, you found

fault with me for lying to that tramp, and I suffered over that. But it

was only yesterday that I told a tramp the square truth, to wit, that,

it being regarded as bad citizenship to encourage vagrancy, I would give

him nothing. What did you do then: Why, you made me say to myself, 'Ah,

it would have been so much kinder and more blameless to ease him off with

a little white lie, and send him away feeling that if he could not have

bread, the gentle treatment was at least something to be grateful for!'

Well, I suffered all day about that. Three days before I had fed a

tramp, and fed him freely, supposing it a virtuous act. Straight off you

said, 'Oh, false citizen, to have fed a tramp!' and I suffered as usual.

I gave a tramp work; you objected to it--after the contract was made,

of course; you never speak up beforehand. Next, I refused a tramp work;

you objected to that. Next, I proposed to kill a tramp; you kept me

awake all night, oozing remorse at every pore. Sure I was going to be

right this time, I sent the next tramp away with my benediction; and I

wish you may live as long as I do, if you didn't make me smart all night

again because I didn't kill him. Is there any way of satisfying that

malignant invention which is called a conscience?"

"Ha, ha! this is luxury! Go on!"

"But come, now, answer me that question. Is there any way?"

"Well, none that I propose to tell you, my son. Ass! I don't care what

act you may turn your hand to, I can straightway whisper a word in your

ear and make you think you have committed a dreadful meanness. It is my

business--and my joy--to make you repent of everything you do. If I have

fooled away any opportunities it was not intentional; I beg to assure you

it was not intentional!"

"Don't worry; you haven't missed a trick that I know of. I never did a

thing in all my life, virtuous or otherwise, that I didn't repent of in

twenty-four hours. In church last Sunday I listened to a charity sermon.

My first impulse was to give three hundred and fifty dollars; I repented

of that and reduced it a hundred; repented of that and reduced it another

hundred; repented of that and reduced it another hundred; repented of

that and reduced the remaining fifty to twenty-five; repented of that and

came down to fifteen; repented of that and dropped to two dollars and a

half; when the plate came around at last, I repented once more and

contributed ten cents. Well, when I got home, I did wish to goodness I

had that ten cents back again! You never did let me get through a

charity sermon without having something to sweat about."

"Oh, and I never shall, I never shall. You can always depend on me."

"I think so. Many and many's the restless night I've wanted to take you

by the neck. If I could only get hold of you now!"

"Yes, no doubt. But I am not an ass; I am only the saddle of an ass.

But go on, go on. You entertain me more than I like to confess."

I am glad of that. (You will not mind my lying a little, to keep in

practice.) Look here; not to be too personal, I think you are about the

shabbiest and most contemptible little shriveled-up reptile that can be

imagined. I am grateful enough that you are invisible to other people,

for I should die with shame to be seen with such a mildewed monkey of a

conscience as you are. Now if you were five or six feet high, and--"

"Oh, come! who is to blame?"

"I don't know."

"Why, you are; nobody else."

"Confound you, I wasn't consulted about your personal appearance."

"I don't care, you had a good deal to do with it, nevertheless. When you

were eight or nine years old, I was seven feet high, and as pretty as a

picture."

"I wish you had died young! So you have grown the wrong way, have you?"

"Some of us grow one way and some the other. You had a large conscience

once; if you've a small conscience now I reckon there are reasons for it.

However, both of us are to blame, you and I. You see, you used to be

conscientious about a great many things; morbidly so, I may say. It was

a great many years ago. You probably do not remember it now. Well,

I took a great interest in my work, and I so enjoyed the anguish which

certain pet sins of yours afflicted you with that I kept pelting at you

until I rather overdid the matter. You began to rebel. Of course I

began to lose ground, then, and shrivel a little--diminish in stature,

get moldy, and grow deformed. The more I weakened, the more stubbornly

you fastened on to those particular sins; till at last the places on my

person that represent those vices became as callous as shark-skin. Take

smoking, for instance. I played that card a little too long, and I lost.

When people plead with you at this late day to quit that vice, that old

callous place seems to enlarge and cover me all over like a shirt of

mail. It exerts a mysterious, smothering effect; and presently I, your

faithful hater, your devoted Conscience, go sound asleep! Sound? It is

no name for it. I couldn't hear it thunder at such a time. You have

some few other vices--perhaps eighty, or maybe ninety--that affect me in

much the same way."

"This is flattering; you must be asleep a good part of your time."

"Yes, of late years. I should be asleep all the time but for the help I

get."

"Who helps you?"

"Other consciences. Whenever a person whose conscience I am acquainted

with tries to plead with you about the vices you are callous to, I get my

friend to give his client a pang concerning some villainy of his own,

and that shuts off his meddling and starts him off to hunt personal

consolation. My field of usefulness is about trimmed down to tramps,

budding authoresses, and that line of goods now; but don't you worry

--I'll harry you on theirs while they last! Just you put your trust in

me."

"I think I can. But if you had only been good enough to mention these

facts some thirty years ago, I should have turned my particular attention

to sin, and I think that by this time I should not only have had you

pretty permanently asleep on the entire list of human vices, but reduced

to the size of a homeopathic pill, at that. That is about the style of

conscience I am pining for. If I only had you shrunk you down to a

homeopathic pill, and could get my hands on you, would I put you in a

glass case for a keepsake? No, sir. I would give you to a yellow dog!

That is where you ought to be--you and all your tribe. You are not fit

to be in society, in my opinion. Now another question. Do you know a

good many consciences in this section?"

"Plenty of them."

"I would give anything to see some of them! Could you bring them here?

And would they be visible to me?"

"Certainly not."

"I suppose I ought to have known that without asking. But no matter, you

can describe them. Tell me about my neighbor Thompson's conscience,

please."

"Very well. I know him intimately; have known him many years. I knew

him when he was eleven feet high and of a faultless figure. But he is

very pasty and tough and misshapen now, and hardly ever interests himself

about anything. As to his present size--well, he sleeps in a cigar-box."

"Likely enough. There are few smaller, meaner men in this region than

Hugh Thompson. Do you know Robinson's conscience?"

"Yes. He is a shade under four and a half feet high; used to be a blond;

is a brunette now, but still shapely and comely."

"Well, Robinson is a good fellow. Do you know Tom Smith's conscience?"

"I have known him from childhood. He was thirteen inches high, and

rather sluggish, when he was two years old--as nearly all of us are at

that age. He is thirty-seven feet high now, and the stateliest figure in

America. His legs are still racked with growing-pains, but he has a good

time, nevertheless. Never sleeps. He is the most active and energetic

member of the New England Conscience Club; is president of it. Night and

day you can find him pegging away at Smith, panting with his labor,

sleeves rolled up, countenance all alive with enjoyment. He has got his

victim splendidly dragooned now. He can make poor Smith imagine that the

most innocent little thing he does is an odious sin; and then he sets to

work and almost tortures the soul out of him about it."

"Smith is the noblest man in all this section, and the purest; and yet is

always breaking his heart because he cannot be good! Only a conscience

could find pleasure in heaping agony upon a spirit like that. Do you

know my aunt Mary's conscience?"

"I have seen her at a distance, but am not acquainted with her. She

lives in the open air altogether, because no door is large enough to

admit her."

"I can believe that. Let me see. Do you know the conscience of that

publisher who once stole some sketches of mine for a 'series' of his, and

then left me to pay the law expenses I had to incur in order to choke him

off?"

"Yes. He has a wide fame. He was exhibited, a month ago, with some

other antiquities, for the benefit of a recent Member of the Cabinet's

conscience that was starving in exile. Tickets and fares were high, but

I traveled for nothing by pretending to be the conscience of an editor,

and got in for half-price by representing myself to be the conscience of

a clergyman. However, the publisher's conscience, which was to have been

the main feature of the entertainment, was a failure--as an exhibition.

He was there, but what of that? The management had provided a microscope

with a magnifying power of only thirty thousand diameters, and so nobody

got to see him, after all. There was great and general dissatisfaction,

of course, but--"

Just here there was an eager footstep on the stair; I opened the door,

and my aunt Mary burst into the room. It was a joyful meeting and a

cheery bombardment of questions and answers concerning family matters

ensued. By and by my aunt said:

"But I am going to abuse you a little now. You promised me, the day I

saw you last, that you would look after the needs of the poor family

around the corner as faithfully as I had done it myself. Well, I found

out by accident that you failed of your promise. Was that right?"

In simple truth, I never had thought of that family a second time! And

now such a splintering pang of guilt shot through me! I glanced up at my

Conscience. Plainly, my heavy heart was affecting him. His body was

drooping forward; he seemed about to fall from the bookcase. My aunt

continued:

"And think how you have neglected my poor protege at the almshouse, you

dear, hard-hearted promise-breaker!" I blushed scarlet, and my tongue

was tied. As the sense of my guilty negligence waxed sharper and

stronger, my Conscience began to sway heavily back and forth; and when my

aunt, after a little pause, said in a grieved tone, "Since you never once

went to see her, maybe it will not distress you now to know that that

poor child died, months ago, utterly friendless and forsaken!"

My Conscience could no longer bear up under the weight of my sufferings,

but tumbled headlong from his high perch and struck the floor with a

dull, leaden thump. He lay there writhing with pain and quaking with

apprehension, but straining every muscle in frantic efforts to get up.

In a fever of expectancy I sprang to the door, locked it, placed my back

against it, and bent a watchful gaze upon my struggling master. Already

my fingers were itching to begin their murderous work.

"Oh, what can be the matter!" exclaimed by aunt, shrinking from me, and

following with her frightened eyes the direction of mine. My breath was

coming in short, quick gasps now, and my excitement was almost

uncontrollable. My aunt cried out:

"Oh, do not look so! You appal me! Oh, what can the matter be? What is

it you see? Why do you stare so? Why do you work your fingers like

that?"

"Peace, woman!" I said, in a hoarse whisper. "Look elsewhere; pay no

attention to me; it is nothing--nothing. I am often this way. It will

pass in a moment. It comes from smoking too much."

My injured lord was up, wild-eyed with terror, and trying to hobble

toward the door. I could hardly breathe, I was so wrought up. My aunt

wrung her hands, and said:

"Oh, I knew how it would be; I knew it would come to this at last!

Oh, I implore you to crush out that fatal habit while it may yet be time!

You must not, you shall not be deaf to my supplications longer!"

My struggling Conscience showed sudden signs of weariness! "Oh, promise

me you will throw off this hateful slavery of tobacco!" My Conscience

began to reel drowsily, and grope with his hands--enchanting spectacle!

"I beg you, I beseech you, I implore you! Your reason is deserting you!

There is madness in your eye! It flames with frenzy! Oh, hear me, hear

me, and be saved! See, I plead with you on my very knees!" As she sank

before me my Conscience reeled again, and then drooped languidly to the

floor, blinking toward me a last supplication for mercy, with heavy eyes.

"Oh, promise, or you are lost! Promise, and be redeemed! Promise!

Promise and live!" With a long-drawn sigh my conquered Conscience closed

his eyes and fell fast asleep!

With an exultant shout I sprang past my aunt, and in an instant I had my

lifelong foe by the throat. After so many years of waiting and longing,

he was mine at last. I tore him to shreds and fragments. I rent the

fragments to bits. I cast the bleeding rubbish into the fire, and drew

into my nostrils the grateful incense of my burnt-offering. At last, and

forever, my Conscience was dead!

I was a free man! I turned upon my poor aunt, who was almost petrified

with terror, and shouted:

"Out of this with your paupers, your charities, your reforms, your

pestilent morals! You behold before you a man whose life-conflict is

done, whose soul is at peace; a man whose heart is dead to sorrow, dead

to suffering, dead to remorse; a man WITHOUT A CONSCIENCE! In my joy I

spare you, though I could throttle you and never feel a pang! Fly!"

She fled. Since that day my life is all bliss. Bliss, unalloyed bliss.

Nothing in all the world could persuade me to have a conscience again.

I settled all my old outstanding scores, and began the world anew.

I killed thirty-eight persons during the first two weeks--all of them on

account of ancient grudges. I burned a dwelling that interrupted my

view. I swindled a widow and some orphans out of their last cow, which

is a very good one, though not thoroughbred, I believe. I have also

committed scores of crimes, of various kinds, and have enjoyed my work

exceedingly, whereas it would formerly have broken my heart and turned my

hair gray, I have no doubt.

In conclusion, I wish to state, by way of advertisement, that medical

colleges desiring assorted tramps for scientific purposes, either by the

gross, by cord measurement, or per ton, will do well to examine the lot

in my cellar before purchasing elsewhere, as these were all selected and

prepared by myself, and can be had at a low rate, because I wish to

clear, out my stock and get ready for the spring trade.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

BY

MARK TWAIN

(Samuel Langhorne Clemens)

P R E F A C E

MOST of the adventures recorded in this book really occurred; one or

two were experiences of my own, the rest those of boys who were

schoolmates of mine. Huck Finn is drawn from life; Tom Sawyer also, but

not from an individual--he is a combination of the characteristics of

three boys whom I knew, and therefore belongs to the composite order of

architecture.

The odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children

and slaves in the West at the period of this story--that is to say,

thirty or forty years ago.

Although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and

girls, I hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account,

for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what

they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked,

and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.

THE AUTHOR.

HARTFORD, 1876.

T O M S A W Y E R

CHAPTER I

"TOM!"

No answer.

"TOM!"

No answer.

"What's gone with that boy, I wonder? You TOM!"

No answer.

The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the

room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or

never looked THROUGH them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her

state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for "style," not

service--she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well.

She looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but

still loud enough for the furniture to hear:

"Well, I lay if I get hold of you I'll--"

She did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching

under the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the

punches with. She resurrected nothing but the cat.

"I never did see the beat of that boy!"

She went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the

tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that constituted the garden. No Tom.

So she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and

shouted:

"Y-o-u-u TOM!"

There was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to

seize a small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight.

"There! I might 'a' thought of that closet. What you been doing in

there?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! Look at your hands. And look at your mouth. What IS that

truck?"

"I don't know, aunt."

"Well, I know. It's jam--that's what it is. Forty times I've said if

you didn't let that jam alone I'd skin you. Hand me that switch."

The switch hovered in the air--the peril was desperate--

"My! Look behind you, aunt!"

The old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger. The

lad fled on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and

disappeared over it.

His aunt Polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle

laugh.

"Hang the boy, can't I never learn anything? Ain't he played me tricks

enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time? But old

fools is the biggest fools there is. Can't learn an old dog new tricks,

as the saying is. But my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days,

and how is a body to know what's coming? He 'pears to know just how

long he can torment me before I get my dander up, and he knows if he

can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it's all down

again and I can't hit him a lick. I ain't doing my duty by that boy,

and that's the Lord's truth, goodness knows. Spare the rod and spile

the child, as the Good Book says. I'm a laying up sin and suffering for

us both, I know. He's full of the Old Scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my

own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and I ain't got the heart to lash

him, somehow. Every time I let him off, my conscience does hurt me so,

and every time I hit him my old heart most breaks. Well-a-well, man

that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the

Scripture says, and I reckon it's so. He'll play hookey this evening, *

and [* Southwestern for "afternoon"] I'll just be obleeged to make him

work, to-morrow, to punish him. It's mighty hard to make him work

Saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more

than he hates anything else, and I've GOT to do some of my duty by him,

or I'll be the ruination of the child."

Tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. He got back home

barely in season to help Jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day's

wood and split the kindlings before supper--at least he was there in

time to tell his adventures to Jim while Jim did three-fourths of the

work. Tom's younger brother (or rather half-brother) Sid was already

through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a

quiet boy, and had no adventurous, troublesome ways.

While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity

offered, Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and

very deep--for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like

many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she

was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she

loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low

cunning. Said she:

"Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Powerful warm, warn't it?"

"Yes'm."

"Didn't you want to go in a-swimming, Tom?"

A bit of a scare shot through Tom--a touch of uncomfortable suspicion.

He searched Aunt Polly's face, but it told him nothing. So he said:

"No'm--well, not very much."

The old lady reached out her hand and felt Tom's shirt, and said:

"But you ain't too warm now, though." And it flattered her to reflect

that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing

that that was what she had in her mind. But in spite of her, Tom knew

where the wind lay, now. So he forestalled what might be the next move:

"Some of us pumped on our heads--mine's damp yet. See?"

Aunt Polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of

circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. Then she had a new

inspiration:

"Tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where I sewed it, to

pump on your head, did you? Unbutton your jacket!"

The trouble vanished out of Tom's face. He opened his jacket. His

shirt collar was securely sewed.

"Bother! Well, go 'long with you. I'd made sure you'd played hookey

and been a-swimming. But I forgive ye, Tom. I reckon you're a kind of a

singed cat, as the saying is--better'n you look. THIS time."

She was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that Tom

had stumbled into obedient conduct for once.

But Sidney said:

"Well, now, if I didn't think you sewed his collar with white thread,

but it's black."

"Why, I did sew it with white! Tom!"

But Tom did not wait for the rest. As he went out at the door he said:

"Siddy, I'll lick you for that."

In a safe place Tom examined two large needles which were thrust into

the lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them--one needle

carried white thread and the other black. He said:

"She'd never noticed if it hadn't been for Sid. Confound it! sometimes

she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with black. I wish to

geeminy she'd stick to one or t'other--I can't keep the run of 'em. But

I bet you I'll lam Sid for that. I'll learn him!"

He was not the Model Boy of the village. He knew the model boy very

well though--and loathed him.

Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles.

Not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him

than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore

them down and drove them out of his mind for the time--just as men's

misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This

new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just

acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it undisturbed.

It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble,

produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short

intervals in the midst of the music--the reader probably remembers how

to do it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave

him the knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full

of harmony and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an

astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet--no doubt, as far as

strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with

the boy, not the astronomer.

The summer evenings were long. It was not dark, yet. Presently Tom

checked his whistle. A stranger was before him--a boy a shade larger

than himself. A new-comer of any age or either sex was an impressive

curiosity in the poor little shabby village of St. Petersburg. This boy

was well dressed, too--well dressed on a week-day. This was simply

astounding. His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth

roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. He had shoes

on--and it was only Friday. He even wore a necktie, a bright bit of

ribbon. He had a citified air about him that ate into Tom's vitals. The

more Tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his

nose at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed

to him to grow. Neither boy spoke. If one moved, the other moved--but

only sidewise, in a circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all

the time. Finally Tom said:

"I can lick you!"

"I'd like to see you try it."

"Well, I can do it."

"No you can't, either."

"Yes I can."

"No you can't."

"I can."

"You can't."

"Can!"

"Can't!"

An uncomfortable pause. Then Tom said:

"What's your name?"

"'Tisn't any of your business, maybe."

"Well I 'low I'll MAKE it my business."

"Well why don't you?"

"If you say much, I will."

"Much--much--MUCH. There now."

"Oh, you think you're mighty smart, DON'T you? I could lick you with

one hand tied behind me, if I wanted to."

"Well why don't you DO it? You SAY you can do it."

"Well I WILL, if you fool with me."

"Oh yes--I've seen whole families in the same fix."

"Smarty! You think you're SOME, now, DON'T you? Oh, what a hat!"

"You can lump that hat if you don't like it. I dare you to knock it

off--and anybody that'll take a dare will suck eggs."

"You're a liar!"

"You're another."

"You're a fighting liar and dasn't take it up."

"Aw--take a walk!"

"Say--if you give me much more of your sass I'll take and bounce a

rock off'n your head."

"Oh, of COURSE you will."

"Well I WILL."

"Well why don't you DO it then? What do you keep SAYING you will for?

Why don't you DO it? It's because you're afraid."

"I AIN'T afraid."

"You are."

"I ain't."

"You are."

Another pause, and more eying and sidling around each other. Presently

they were shoulder to shoulder. Tom said:

"Get away from here!"

"Go away yourself!"

"I won't."

"I won't either."

So they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and

both shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with

hate. But neither could get an advantage. After struggling till both

were hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution,

and Tom said:

"You're a coward and a pup. I'll tell my big brother on you, and he

can thrash you with his little finger, and I'll make him do it, too."

"What do I care for your big brother? I've got a brother that's bigger

than he is--and what's more, he can throw him over that fence, too."

[Both brothers were imaginary.]

"That's a lie."

"YOUR saying so don't make it so."

Tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:

"I dare you to step over that, and I'll lick you till you can't stand

up. Anybody that'll take a dare will steal sheep."

The new boy stepped over promptly, and said:

"Now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it."

"Don't you crowd me now; you better look out."

"Well, you SAID you'd do it--why don't you do it?"

"By jingo! for two cents I WILL do it."

The new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out

with derision. Tom struck them to the ground. In an instant both boys

were rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and

for the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other's hair and

clothes, punched and scratched each other's nose, and covered

themselves with dust and glory. Presently the confusion took form, and

through the fog of battle Tom appeared, seated astride the new boy, and

pounding him with his fists. "Holler 'nuff!" said he.

The boy only struggled to free himself. He was crying--mainly from rage.

"Holler 'nuff!"--and the pounding went on.

At last the stranger got out a smothered "'Nuff!" and Tom let him up

and said:

"Now that'll learn you. Better look out who you're fooling with next

time."

The new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing,

snuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and

threatening what he would do to Tom the "next time he caught him out."

To which Tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather, and

as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw

it and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like

an antelope. Tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out where he

lived. He then held a position at the gate for some time, daring the

enemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through the

window and declined. At last the enemy's mother appeared, and called

Tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away. So he went

away; but he said he "'lowed" to "lay" for that boy.

He got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in

at the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt;

and when she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn

his Saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in

its firmness.

CHAPTER II

SATURDAY morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and

fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if

the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in

every face and a spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloom

and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyond

the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far

enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a

long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and

a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board

fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a

burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost

plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant

whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed

fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at

the gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from

the town pump had always been hateful work in Tom's eyes, before, but

now it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company at

the pump. White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there

waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling,

fighting, skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only

a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of

water under an hour--and even then somebody generally had to go after

him. Tom said:

"Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some."

Jim shook his head and said:

"Can't, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an' git dis

water an' not stop foolin' roun' wid anybody. She say she spec' Mars

Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend

to my own business--she 'lowed SHE'D 'tend to de whitewashin'."

"Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's the way she always

talks. Gimme the bucket--I won't be gone only a a minute. SHE won't

ever know."

"Oh, I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole missis she'd take an' tar de head off'n

me. 'Deed she would."

"SHE! She never licks anybody--whacks 'em over the head with her

thimble--and who cares for that, I'd like to know. She talks awful, but

talk don't hurt--anyways it don't if she don't cry. Jim, I'll give you

a marvel. I'll give you a white alley!"

Jim began to waver.

"White alley, Jim! And it's a bully taw."

"My! Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I's powerful

'fraid ole missis--"

"And besides, if you will I'll show you my sore toe."

Jim was only human--this attraction was too much for him. He put down

his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing

interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he was

flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was

whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field

with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.

But Tom's energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had

planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys

would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and

they would make a world of fun of him for having to work--the very

thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and

examined it--bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an

exchange of WORK, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an

hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his

pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark

and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a

great, magnificent inspiration.

He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in

sight presently--the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been

dreading. Ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump--proof enough that his

heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and

giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned

ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As

he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned

far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious

pomp and circumstance--for he was personating the Big Missouri, and

considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and

captain and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself

standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:

"Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!" The headway ran almost out, and he

drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.

"Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!" His arms straightened and

stiffened down his sides.

"Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow!

Chow!" His right hand, meantime, describing stately circles--for it was

representing a forty-foot wheel.

"Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-lingling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!"

The left hand began to describe circles.

"Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead

on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow!

Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! LIVELY now!

Come--out with your spring-line--what're you about there! Take a turn

round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now--let her

go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! SH'T! S'H'T! SH'T!"

(trying the gauge-cocks).

Tom went on whitewashing--paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben

stared a moment and then said: "Hi-YI! YOU'RE up a stump, ain't you!"

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then

he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as

before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the

apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said:

"Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"

Tom wheeled suddenly and said:

"Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."

"Say--I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of

course you'd druther WORK--wouldn't you? Course you would!"

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:

"What do you call work?"

"Why, ain't THAT work?"

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits Tom

Sawyer."

"Oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you LIKE it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get

a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom

swept his brush daintily back and forth--stepped back to note the

effect--added a touch here and there--criticised the effect again--Ben

watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more

absorbed. Presently he said:

"Say, Tom, let ME whitewash a little."

Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:

"No--no--I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's

awful particular about this fence--right here on the street, you know

--but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and SHE wouldn't. Yes,

she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very

careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two

thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

"No--is that so? Oh come, now--lemme just try. Only just a little--I'd

let YOU, if you was me, Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly--well, Jim wanted to

do it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't

let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this

fence and anything was to happen to it--"

"Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say--I'll give

you the core of my apple."

"Well, here--No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard--"

"I'll give you ALL of it!"

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his

heart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in

the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by,

dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more

innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every

little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time

Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for

a kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in

for a dead rat and a string to swing it with--and so on, and so on,

hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being

a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling

in wealth. He had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles,

part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a

spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk,

a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six

fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass doorknob, a

dog-collar--but no dog--the handle of a knife, four pieces of

orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.

He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while--plenty of company

--and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out

of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He

had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it--namely,

that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only

necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great

and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have

comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is OBLIGED to do,

and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And

this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers

or performing on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or

climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in

England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles

on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them

considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service,

that would turn it into work and then they would resign.

The boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place

in his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters to

report.

CHAPTER III

TOM presented himself before Aunt Polly, who was sitting by an open

window in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bedroom,

breakfast-room, dining-room, and library, combined. The balmy summer

air, the restful quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing murmur

of the bees had had their effect, and she was nodding over her knitting

--for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her lap. Her

spectacles were propped up on her gray head for safety. She had thought

that of course Tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered at seeing him

place himself in her power again in this intrepid way. He said: "Mayn't

I go and play now, aunt?"

"What, a'ready? How much have you done?"

"It's all done, aunt."

"Tom, don't lie to me--I can't bear it."

"I ain't, aunt; it IS all done."

Aunt Polly placed small trust in such evidence. She went out to see

for herself; and she would have been content to find twenty per cent.

of Tom's statement true. When she found the entire fence whitewashed,

and not only whitewashed but elaborately coated and recoated, and even

a streak added to the ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable.

She said:

"Well, I never! There's no getting round it, you can work when you're

a mind to, Tom." And then she diluted the compliment by adding, "But

it's powerful seldom you're a mind to, I'm bound to say. Well, go 'long

and play; but mind you get back some time in a week, or I'll tan you."

She was so overcome by the splendor of his achievement that she took

him into the closet and selected a choice apple and delivered it to

him, along with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a

treat took to itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort.

And while she closed with a happy Scriptural flourish, he "hooked" a

doughnut.

Then he skipped out, and saw Sid just starting up the outside stairway

that led to the back rooms on the second floor. Clods were handy and

the air was full of them in a twinkling. They raged around Sid like a

hail-storm; and before Aunt Polly could collect her surprised faculties

and sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken personal effect,

and Tom was over the fence and gone. There was a gate, but as a general

thing he was too crowded for time to make use of it. His soul was at

peace, now that he had settled with Sid for calling attention to his

black thread and getting him into trouble.

Tom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by

the back of his aunt's cow-stable. He presently got safely beyond the

reach of capture and punishment, and hastened toward the public square

of the village, where two "military" companies of boys had met for

conflict, according to previous appointment. Tom was General of one of

these armies, Joe Harper (a bosom friend) General of the other. These

two great commanders did not condescend to fight in person--that being

better suited to the still smaller fry--but sat together on an eminence

and conducted the field operations by orders delivered through

aides-de-camp. Tom's army won a great victory, after a long and

hard-fought battle. Then the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged,

the terms of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the

necessary battle appointed; after which the armies fell into line and

marched away, and Tom turned homeward alone.

As he was passing by the house where Jeff Thatcher lived, he saw a new

girl in the garden--a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair

plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered

pantalettes. The fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. A

certain Amy Lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a

memory of herself behind. He had thought he loved her to distraction;

he had regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was only a poor

little evanescent partiality. He had been months winning her; she had

confessed hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest

boy in the world only seven short days, and here in one instant of time

she had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is

done.

He worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she

had discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present,

and began to "show off" in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to

win her admiration. He kept up this grotesque foolishness for some

time; but by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous

gymnastic performances, he glanced aside and saw that the little girl

was wending her way toward the house. Tom came up to the fence and

leaned on it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet awhile longer.

She halted a moment on the steps and then moved toward the door. Tom

heaved a great sigh as she put her foot on the threshold. But his face

lit up, right away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a moment

before she disappeared.

The boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and

then shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look down street as if

he had discovered something of interest going on in that direction.

Presently he picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his

nose, with his head tilted far back; and as he moved from side to side,

in his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally

his bare foot rested upon it, his pliant toes closed upon it, and he

hopped away with the treasure and disappeared round the corner. But

only for a minute--only while he could button the flower inside his

jacket, next his heart--or next his stomach, possibly, for he was not

much posted in anatomy, and not hypercritical, anyway.

He returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall, "showing

off," as before; but the girl never exhibited herself again, though Tom

comforted himself a little with the hope that she had been near some

window, meantime, and been aware of his attentions. Finally he strode

home reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions.

All through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered

"what had got into the child." He took a good scolding about clodding

Sid, and did not seem to mind it in the least. He tried to steal sugar

under his aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it. He said:

"Aunt, you don't whack Sid when he takes it."

"Well, Sid don't torment a body the way you do. You'd be always into

that sugar if I warn't watching you."

Presently she stepped into the kitchen, and Sid, happy in his

immunity, reached for the sugar-bowl--a sort of glorying over Tom which

was wellnigh unbearable. But Sid's fingers slipped and the bowl dropped

and broke. Tom was in ecstasies. In such ecstasies that he even

controlled his tongue and was silent. He said to himself that he would

not speak a word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit perfectly

still till she asked who did the mischief; and then he would tell, and

there would be nothing so good in the world as to see that pet model

"catch it." He was so brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold

himself when the old lady came back and stood above the wreck

discharging lightnings of wrath from over her spectacles. He said to

himself, "Now it's coming!" And the next instant he was sprawling on

the floor! The potent palm was uplifted to strike again when Tom cried

out:

"Hold on, now, what 'er you belting ME for?--Sid broke it!"

Aunt Polly paused, perplexed, and Tom looked for healing pity. But

when she got her tongue again, she only said:

"Umf! Well, you didn't get a lick amiss, I reckon. You been into some

other audacious mischief when I wasn't around, like enough."

Then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something

kind and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a

confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that.

So she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart.

Tom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. He knew that in her heart

his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the

consciousness of it. He would hang out no signals, he would take notice

of none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then,

through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured

himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching

one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and

die with that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then? And he pictured

himself brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and

his sore heart at rest. How she would throw herself upon him, and how

her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray God to give her back

her boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! But he would lie

there cold and white and make no sign--a poor little sufferer, whose

griefs were at an end. He so worked upon his feelings with the pathos

of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to

choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he

winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his nose. And such a

luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear

to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it;

it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin

Mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an

age-long visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in

clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in

at the other.

He wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought

desolate places that were in harmony with his spirit. A log raft in the

river invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and

contemplated the dreary vastness of the stream, wishing, the while,

that he could only be drowned, all at once and unconsciously, without

undergoing the uncomfortable routine devised by nature. Then he thought

of his flower. He got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it mightily

increased his dismal felicity. He wondered if she would pity him if she

knew? Would she cry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms

around his neck and comfort him? Or would she turn coldly away like all

the hollow world? This picture brought such an agony of pleasurable

suffering that he worked it over and over again in his mind and set it

up in new and varied lights, till he wore it threadbare. At last he

rose up sighing and departed in the darkness.

About half-past nine or ten o'clock he came along the deserted street

to where the Adored Unknown lived; he paused a moment; no sound fell

upon his listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the

curtain of a second-story window. Was the sacred presence there? He

climbed the fence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants, till

he stood under that window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion;

then he laid him down on the ground under it, disposing himself upon

his back, with his hands clasped upon his breast and holding his poor

wilted flower. And thus he would die--out in the cold world, with no

shelter over his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the

death-damps from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly over him

when the great agony came. And thus SHE would see him when she looked

out upon the glad morning, and oh! would she drop one little tear upon

his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little sigh to see a bright

young life so rudely blighted, so untimely cut down?

The window went up, a maid-servant's discordant voice profaned the

holy calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr's remains!

The strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort. There was a whiz

as of a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound

as of shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the

fence and shot away in the gloom.

Not long after, as Tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his

drenched garments by the light of a tallow dip, Sid woke up; but if he

had any dim idea of making any "references to allusions," he thought

better of it and held his peace, for there was danger in Tom's eye.

Tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and Sid made

mental note of the omission.

CHAPTER IV

THE sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful

village like a benediction. Breakfast over, Aunt Polly had family

worship: it began with a prayer built from the ground up of solid

courses of Scriptural quotations, welded together with a thin mortar of

originality; and from the summit of this she delivered a grim chapter

of the Mosaic Law, as from Sinai.

Then Tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to "get

his verses." Sid had learned his lesson days before. Tom bent all his

energies to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of the

Sermon on the Mount, because he could find no verses that were shorter.

At the end of half an hour Tom had a vague general idea of his lesson,

but no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of human

thought, and his hands were busy with distracting recreations. Mary

took his book to hear him recite, and he tried to find his way through

the fog:

"Blessed are the--a--a--"

"Poor"--

"Yes--poor; blessed are the poor--a--a--"

"In spirit--"

"In spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they--they--"

"THEIRS--"

"For THEIRS. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom

of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they--they--"

"Sh--"

"For they--a--"

"S, H, A--"

"For they S, H--Oh, I don't know what it is!"

"SHALL!"

"Oh, SHALL! for they shall--for they shall--a--a--shall mourn--a--a--

blessed are they that shall--they that--a--they that shall mourn, for

they shall--a--shall WHAT? Why don't you tell me, Mary?--what do you

want to be so mean for?"

"Oh, Tom, you poor thick-headed thing, I'm not teasing you. I wouldn't

do that. You must go and learn it again. Don't you be discouraged, Tom,

you'll manage it--and if you do, I'll give you something ever so nice.

There, now, that's a good boy."

"All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is."

"Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it's nice, it is nice."

"You bet you that's so, Mary. All right, I'll tackle it again."

And he did "tackle it again"--and under the double pressure of

curiosity and prospective gain he did it with such spirit that he

accomplished a shining success. Mary gave him a brand-new "Barlow"

knife worth twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that

swept his system shook him to his foundations. True, the knife would

not cut anything, but it was a "sure-enough" Barlow, and there was

inconceivable grandeur in that--though where the Western boys ever got

the idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its

injury is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom

contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to begin

on the bureau, when he was called off to dress for Sunday-school.

Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went

outside the door and set the basin on a little bench there; then he

dipped the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves;

poured out the water on the ground, gently, and then entered the

kitchen and began to wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the

door. But Mary removed the towel and said:

"Now ain't you ashamed, Tom. You mustn't be so bad. Water won't hurt

you."

Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time

he stood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big

breath and began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes

shut and groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony

of suds and water was dripping from his face. But when he emerged from

the towel, he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped

short at his chin and his jaws, like a mask; below and beyond this line

there was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in

front and backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand, and when she

was done with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of

color, and his saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls

wrought into a dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He privately

smoothed out the curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his

hair close down to his head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and

his own filled his life with bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of

his clothing that had been used only on Sundays during two years--they

were simply called his "other clothes"--and so by that we know the

size of his wardrobe. The girl "put him to rights" after he had dressed

himself; she buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his

vast shirt collar down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned

him with his speckled straw hat. He now looked exceedingly improved and

uncomfortable. He was fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there

was a restraint about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him. He

hoped that Mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she

coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom, and brought them

out. He lost his temper and said he was always being made to do

everything he didn't want to do. But Mary said, persuasively:

"Please, Tom--that's a good boy."

So he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon ready, and the three

children set out for Sunday-school--a place that Tom hated with his

whole heart; but Sid and Mary were fond of it.

Sabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past ten; and then church

service. Two of the children always remained for the sermon

voluntarily, and the other always remained too--for stronger reasons.

The church's high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three

hundred persons; the edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a sort

of pine board tree-box on top of it for a steeple. At the door Tom

dropped back a step and accosted a Sunday-dressed comrade:

"Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket?"

"Yes."

"What'll you take for her?"

"What'll you give?"

"Piece of lickrish and a fish-hook."

"Less see 'em."

Tom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the property changed hands.

Then Tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and

some small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. He waylaid other

boys as they came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten or

fifteen minutes longer. He entered the church, now, with a swarm of

clean and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a

quarrel with the first boy that came handy. The teacher, a grave,

elderly man, interfered; then turned his back a moment and Tom pulled a

boy's hair in the next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy

turned around; stuck a pin in another boy, presently, in order to hear

him say "Ouch!" and got a new reprimand from his teacher. Tom's whole

class were of a pattern--restless, noisy, and troublesome. When they

came to recite their lessons, not one of them knew his verses

perfectly, but had to be prompted all along. However, they worried

through, and each got his reward--in small blue tickets, each with a

passage of Scripture on it; each blue ticket was pay for two verses of

the recitation. Ten blue tickets equalled a red one, and could be

exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a yellow one; for ten yellow

tickets the superintendent gave a very plainly bound Bible (worth forty

cents in those easy times) to the pupil. How many of my readers would

have the industry and application to memorize two thousand verses, even

for a Dore Bible? And yet Mary had acquired two Bibles in this way--it

was the patient work of two years--and a boy of German parentage had

won four or five. He once recited three thousand verses without

stopping; but the strain upon his mental faculties was too great, and

he was little better than an idiot from that day forth--a grievous

misfortune for the school, for on great occasions, before company, the

superintendent (as Tom expressed it) had always made this boy come out

and "spread himself." Only the older pupils managed to keep their

tickets and stick to their tedious work long enough to get a Bible, and

so the delivery of one of these prizes was a rare and noteworthy

circumstance; the successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for

that day that on the spot every scholar's heart was fired with a fresh

ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks. It is possible that Tom's

mental stomach had never really hungered for one of those prizes, but

unquestionably his entire being had for many a day longed for the glory

and the eclat that came with it.

In due course the superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with

a closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted between its

leaves, and commanded attention. When a Sunday-school superintendent

makes his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the hand is as

necessary as is the inevitable sheet of music in the hand of a singer

who stands forward on the platform and sings a solo at a concert

--though why, is a mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet of

music is ever referred to by the sufferer. This superintendent was a

slim creature of thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair;

he wore a stiff standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his

ears and whose sharp points curved forward abreast the corners of his

mouth--a fence that compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning

of the whole body when a side view was required; his chin was propped

on a spreading cravat which was as broad and as long as a bank-note,

and had fringed ends; his boot toes were turned sharply up, in the

fashion of the day, like sleigh-runners--an effect patiently and

laboriously produced by the young men by sitting with their toes

pressed against a wall for hours together. Mr. Walters was very earnest

of mien, and very sincere and honest at heart; and he held sacred

things and places in such reverence, and so separated them from worldly

matters, that unconsciously to himself his Sunday-school voice had

acquired a peculiar intonation which was wholly absent on week-days. He

began after this fashion:

"Now, children, I want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty

as you can and give me all your attention for a minute or two. There

--that is it. That is the way good little boys and girls should do. I see

one little girl who is looking out of the window--I am afraid she

thinks I am out there somewhere--perhaps up in one of the trees making

a speech to the little birds. [Applausive titter.] I want to tell you

how good it makes me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces

assembled in a place like this, learning to do right and be good." And

so forth and so on. It is not necessary to set down the rest of the

oration. It was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is familiar

to us all.

The latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights

and other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings

and whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases

of isolated and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But now every

sound ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of Mr. Walters' voice, and

the conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent

gratitude.

A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which

was more or less rare--the entrance of visitors: lawyer Thatcher,

accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged

gentleman with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless

the latter's wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had been restless

and full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too--he could

not meet Amy Lawrence's eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But

when he saw this small new-comer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in

a moment. The next moment he was "showing off" with all his might

--cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces--in a word, using every art

that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her applause. His

exaltation had but one alloy--the memory of his humiliation in this

angel's garden--and that record in sand was fast washing out, under

the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now.

The visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as Mr.

Walters' speech was finished, he introduced them to the school. The

middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage--no less a one

than the county judge--altogether the most august creation these

children had ever looked upon--and they wondered what kind of material

he was made of--and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half

afraid he might, too. He was from Constantinople, twelve miles away--so

he had travelled, and seen the world--these very eyes had looked upon

the county court-house--which was said to have a tin roof. The awe

which these reflections inspired was attested by the impressive silence

and the ranks of staring eyes. This was the great Judge Thatcher,

brother of their own lawyer. Jeff Thatcher immediately went forward, to

be familiar with the great man and be envied by the school. It would

have been music to his soul to hear the whisperings:

"Look at him, Jim! He's a going up there. Say--look! he's a going to

shake hands with him--he IS shaking hands with him! By jings, don't you

wish you was Jeff?"

Mr. Walters fell to "showing off," with all sorts of official

bustlings and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments,

discharging directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a

target. The librarian "showed off"--running hither and thither with his

arms full of books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that

insect authority delights in. The young lady teachers "showed off"

--bending sweetly over pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting

pretty warning fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones

lovingly. The young gentlemen teachers "showed off" with small

scoldings and other little displays of authority and fine attention to

discipline--and most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up

at the library, by the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had

to be done over again two or three times (with much seeming vexation).

The little girls "showed off" in various ways, and the little boys

"showed off" with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads

and the murmur of scufflings. And above it all the great man sat and

beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself

in the sun of his own grandeur--for he was "showing off," too.

There was only one thing wanting to make Mr. Walters' ecstasy

complete, and that was a chance to deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a

prodigy. Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough

--he had been around among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given

worlds, now, to have that German lad back again with a sound mind.

And now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came forward

with nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and

demanded a Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Walters

was not expecting an application from this source for the next ten

years. But there was no getting around it--here were the certified

checks, and they were good for their face. Tom was therefore elevated

to a place with the Judge and the other elect, and the great news was

announced from headquarters. It was the most stunning surprise of the

decade, and so profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero

up to the judicial one's altitude, and the school had two marvels to

gaze upon in place of one. The boys were all eaten up with envy--but

those that suffered the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too

late that they themselves had contributed to this hated splendor by

trading tickets to Tom for the wealth he had amassed in selling

whitewashing privileges. These despised themselves, as being the dupes

of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the grass.

The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the

superintendent could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked

somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him

that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light,

perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two

thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises--a dozen would

strain his capacity, without a doubt.

Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in

her face--but he wouldn't look. She wondered; then she was just a grain

troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went--came again; she watched;

a furtive glance told her worlds--and then her heart broke, and she was

jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody. Tom

most of all (she thought).

Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath

would hardly come, his heart quaked--partly because of the awful

greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would

have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The

Judge put his hand on Tom's head and called him a fine little man, and

asked him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out:

"Tom."

"Oh, no, not Tom--it is--"

"Thomas."

"Ah, that's it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That's very

well. But you've another one I daresay, and you'll tell it to me, won't

you?"

"Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas," said Walters, "and say

sir. You mustn't forget your manners."

"Thomas Sawyer--sir."

"That's it! That's a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly little fellow.

Two thousand verses is a great many--very, very great many. And you

never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for

knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it's what

makes great men and good men; you'll be a great man and a good man

yourself, some day, Thomas, and then you'll look back and say, It's all

owing to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my boyhood--it's all

owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn--it's all owing to

the good superintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and

gave me a beautiful Bible--a splendid elegant Bible--to keep and have

it all for my own, always--it's all owing to right bringing up! That is

what you will say, Thomas--and you wouldn't take any money for those

two thousand verses--no indeed you wouldn't. And now you wouldn't mind

telling me and this lady some of the things you've learned--no, I know

you wouldn't--for we are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no

doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples. Won't you tell us

the names of the first two that were appointed?"

Tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking sheepish. He blushed,

now, and his eyes fell. Mr. Walters' heart sank within him. He said to

himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest

question--why DID the Judge ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up

and say:

"Answer the gentleman, Thomas--don't be afraid."

Tom still hung fire.

"Now I know you'll tell me," said the lady. "The names of the first

two disciples were--"

"DAVID AND GOLIAH!"

Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.

CHAPTER V

ABOUT half-past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to

ring, and presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon.

The Sunday-school children distributed themselves about the house and

occupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision. Aunt

Polly came, and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her--Tom being placed

next the aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open

window and the seductive outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd

filed up the aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better

days; the mayor and his wife--for they had a mayor there, among other

unnecessaries; the justice of the peace; the widow Douglass, fair,

smart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her

hill mansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and

much the most lavish in the matter of festivities that St. Petersburg

could boast; the bent and venerable Major and Mrs. Ward; lawyer

Riverson, the new notable from a distance; next the belle of the

village, followed by a troop of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young

heart-breakers; then all the young clerks in town in a body--for they

had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane-heads, a circling wall of

oiled and simpering admirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet;

and last of all came the Model Boy, Willie Mufferson, taking as heedful

care of his mother as if she were cut glass. He always brought his

mother to church, and was the pride of all the matrons. The boys all

hated him, he was so good. And besides, he had been "thrown up to them"

so much. His white handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind, as

usual on Sundays--accidentally. Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked

upon boys who had as snobs.

The congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more,

to warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the

church which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the

choir in the gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered all

through service. There was once a church choir that was not ill-bred,

but I have forgotten where it was, now. It was a great many years ago,

and I can scarcely remember anything about it, but I think it was in

some foreign country.

The minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in

a peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country.

His voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached

a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost

word and then plunged down as if from a spring-board:

Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow'ry BEDS of ease,

Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro' BLOODY seas?

He was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church "sociables" he was

always called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the ladies

would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps,

and "wall" their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say, "Words

cannot express it; it is too beautiful, TOO beautiful for this mortal

earth."

After the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself into

a bulletin-board, and read off "notices" of meetings and societies and

things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of

doom--a queer custom which is still kept up in America, even in cities,

away here in this age of abundant newspapers. Often, the less there is

to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it.

And now the minister prayed. A good, generous prayer it was, and went

into details: it pleaded for the church, and the little children of the

church; for the other churches of the village; for the village itself;

for the county; for the State; for the State officers; for the United

States; for the churches of the United States; for Congress; for the

President; for the officers of the Government; for poor sailors, tossed

by stormy seas; for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of

European monarchies and Oriental despotisms; for such as have the light

and the good tidings, and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear

withal; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and closed with

a supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace

and favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a

grateful harvest of good. Amen.

There was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat

down. The boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer,

he only endured it--if he even did that much. He was restive all

through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously

--for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the

clergyman's regular route over it--and when a little trifle of new

matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature

resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. In the

midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of

him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together,

embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that

it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread

of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs

and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going

through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly

safe. As indeed it was; for as sorely as Tom's hands itched to grab for

it they did not dare--he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed

if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on. But with the

closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the

instant the "Amen" was out the fly was a prisoner of war. His aunt

detected the act and made him let it go.

The minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through

an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod

--and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone

and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be

hardly worth the saving. Tom counted the pages of the sermon; after

church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew

anything else about the discourse. However, this time he was really

interested for a little while. The minister made a grand and moving

picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the

millennium when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a

little child should lead them. But the pathos, the lesson, the moral of

the great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the

conspicuousness of the principal character before the on-looking

nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he

wished he could be that child, if it was a tame lion.

Now he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argument was resumed.

Presently he bethought him of a treasure he had and got it out. It was

a large black beetle with formidable jaws--a "pinchbug," he called it.

It was in a percussion-cap box. The first thing the beetle did was to

take him by the finger. A natural fillip followed, the beetle went

floundering into the aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt finger

went into the boy's mouth. The beetle lay there working its helpless

legs, unable to turn over. Tom eyed it, and longed for it; but it was

safe out of his reach. Other people uninterested in the sermon found

relief in the beetle, and they eyed it too. Presently a vagrant poodle

dog came idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and

the quiet, weary of captivity, sighing for change. He spied the beetle;

the drooping tail lifted and wagged. He surveyed the prize; walked

around it; smelt at it from a safe distance; walked around it again;

grew bolder, and took a closer smell; then lifted his lip and made a

gingerly snatch at it, just missing it; made another, and another;

began to enjoy the diversion; subsided to his stomach with the beetle

between his paws, and continued his experiments; grew weary at last,

and then indifferent and absent-minded. His head nodded, and little by

little his chin descended and touched the enemy, who seized it. There

was a sharp yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the beetle fell a

couple of yards away, and lit on its back once more. The neighboring

spectators shook with a gentle inward joy, several faces went behind

fans and handkerchiefs, and Tom was entirely happy. The dog looked

foolish, and probably felt so; but there was resentment in his heart,

too, and a craving for revenge. So he went to the beetle and began a

wary attack on it again; jumping at it from every point of a circle,

lighting with his fore-paws within an inch of the creature, making even

closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking his head till his

ears flapped again. But he grew tired once more, after a while; tried

to amuse himself with a fly but found no relief; followed an ant

around, with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied of that;

yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat down on it. Then

there was a wild yelp of agony and the poodle went sailing up the

aisle; the yelps continued, and so did the dog; he crossed the house in

front of the altar; he flew down the other aisle; he crossed before the

doors; he clamored up the home-stretch; his anguish grew with his

progress, till presently he was but a woolly comet moving in its orbit

with the gleam and the speed of light. At last the frantic sufferer

sheered from its course, and sprang into its master's lap; he flung it

out of the window, and the voice of distress quickly thinned away and

died in the distance.

By this time the whole church was red-faced and suffocating with

suppressed laughter, and the sermon had come to a dead standstill. The

discourse was resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all

possibility of impressiveness being at an end; for even the gravest

sentiments were constantly being received with a smothered burst of

unholy mirth, under cover of some remote pew-back, as if the poor

parson had said a rarely facetious thing. It was a genuine relief to

the whole congregation when the ordeal was over and the benediction

pronounced.

Tom Sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking to himself that there

was some satisfaction about divine service when there was a bit of

variety in it. He had but one marring thought; he was willing that the

dog should play with his pinchbug, but he did not think it was upright

in him to carry it off.

CHAPTER VI

MONDAY morning found Tom Sawyer miserable. Monday morning always found

him so--because it began another week's slow suffering in school. He

generally began that day with wishing he had had no intervening

holiday, it made the going into captivity and fetters again so much

more odious.

Tom lay thinking. Presently it occurred to him that he wished he was

sick; then he could stay home from school. Here was a vague

possibility. He canvassed his system. No ailment was found, and he

investigated again. This time he thought he could detect colicky

symptoms, and he began to encourage them with considerable hope. But

they soon grew feeble, and presently died wholly away. He reflected

further. Suddenly he discovered something. One of his upper front teeth

was loose. This was lucky; he was about to begin to groan, as a

"starter," as he called it, when it occurred to him that if he came

into court with that argument, his aunt would pull it out, and that

would hurt. So he thought he would hold the tooth in reserve for the

present, and seek further. Nothing offered for some little time, and

then he remembered hearing the doctor tell about a certain thing that

laid up a patient for two or three weeks and threatened to make him

lose a finger. So the boy eagerly drew his sore toe from under the

sheet and held it up for inspection. But now he did not know the

necessary symptoms. However, it seemed well worth while to chance it,

so he fell to groaning with considerable spirit.

But Sid slept on unconscious.

Tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the toe.

No result from Sid.