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