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    The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
    The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
    The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
    Ebook268 pages3 hours

    The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

    By Mark Twain

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    "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" is a much loved and classic work of 19th century American literature. It is the story of Tom, a rambunctious young lad who lives with his Aunt Polly. Tom is a boy who doesn't much like going to school and throughout the book does everything he can to get out of it. Near the beginning of the novel Tom exhibits his keen wit by convincing some boys to paint his Aunt Polly's fence that he has been punished with having to paint on a Saturday for skipping school to go swimming. "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" is a story of boyhood love. Tom falls for Becky Thatcher, the daughter of the town Judge, and tries to woe her throughout the novel. It is also the story of boyhood adventure and camaraderie. Tom and his friend Huckleberry Finn witness a murder, become pirates, are thought to be dead, and search for lost treasure. It is a novel rich with the regional dialect and depictions of the Mississippi River Valley in which Mark Twain grew up and is known for writing about. "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" will delight readers young and old with its light-hearted comedic narrative.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDigireads.com Publishing
    Release dateJan 1, 2010
    ISBN9781596250185
    Author

    Mark Twain

    Mark Twain, whose real name was Samuel Clemens (1835 1910), was the celebrated author of several novels, including two major classics of American literature: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. He was also a riverboat pilot, journalist, lecturer, entrepreneur and inventor.Early LifeTwain was born Samuel Langhorne Clemens in the tiny village of Florida, Missouri, on November 30, 1835, the sixth child of John and Jane Clemens. When he was 4 years old, his family moved to nearby Hannibal, a bustling river town of 1,000 people. John Clemens worked as a storekeeper, lawyer, judge and land speculator, dreaming of wealth but never achieving it, sometimes finding it hard to feed his family. He was an unsmiling fellow; according to one legend, young Sam never saw his father laugh. His mother, by contrast, was a fun-loving, tenderhearted homemaker who whiled away many a winter's night for her family by telling stories. She became head of the household in 1847 when John died unexpectedly. The Clemens family "now became almost destitute," wrote biographer Everett Emerson, and was forced into years of economic struggle a fact that would shape the career of Twain.Twain in HannibalTwain stayed in Hannibal until age 17. The town, situated on the Mississippi River, was in many ways a splendid place to grow up. Steamboats arrived there three times a day, tooting their whistles; circuses, minstrel shows and revivalists paid visits; a decent library was available; and tradesmen such as blacksmiths and tanners practiced their entertaining crafts for all to see.However, violence was commonplace, and young Twain witnessed much death: When he was nine years old, he saw a local man murder a cattle rancher, and at 10 he watched an enslaved person die after a white overseer struck him with a piece of iron.Hannibal inspired several of Twain's fictional locales, including "St. Petersburg" in Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. These imaginary river towns are complex places: sunlit and exuberant on the one hand, but also vipers' nests of cruelty, poverty, drunkenness, loneliness and soul-crushing boredom all parts of Twain's boyhood experience.Sam kept up his schooling until he was about 12 years old, when with his father dead and the family needing a source of income he found employment as an apprentice printer at the Hannibal Courier, which paid him with a meager ration of food. In 1851, at 15, he got a job as a printer and occasional writer and editor at the Hannibal Western Union, a little newspaper owned by his brother, Orion.

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    Reviews for The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

    4/5

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    • 4/5
      A young criminal mastermind-in-training gets into mischief with his disreputable neighborhood friends.
    • 3/5
      I read this book in my 6th grade. The story was gripping but not my favorite.
    • 2/5
      Allow me to preface this review by informing my reader that I do not much care for southern accents. I do not find them appealing. I say this as a southern girl (with no accent...I'm Atlanta born and raised). This audiobook definitely plays up the southern-ness of the story. The narrator pulls out the accent, which, perfectly fitting to the story though it may be, annoys me greatly.

      In middle school, I had to read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which seemed to me at the time to be essentially a form of torture exacted by my teacher. I can say, gratefully, that this one was not so bad, although whether that is the audio format or the different, shorter book, it's hard to say.

      The story did not hugely impress me, although it was interesting to learn the details of a book about which my only knowledge was drawn from Wishbone. True fact. As I was listening, I kept trying to remember what I knew about it and I just now realized that all I know is thanks to a spunky Jack Russell terrier. Man, I miss that show.

      Anyway, the book was not too bad. Except for the blatant racism. The discussions of black people and of Injun Joe were certainly what would be expected of a man of Twain's time, but definitely are completely awful. Also, there was one scene in which Tom was talking about being a pirate in which he describes how pirates or robbers get ladies; his description is essentially of Stockholm Syndrome. Terrifying!!!

      Lynch did, accent issues put aside, a really good job with the book. His voices were really unique, almost always allowing me to know who was speaking, even if I missed the part that said who was talking. Aunt Polly's voice definitely grated, even beyond the accent, but I thought his Tom definitely conveyed the excitement of a young, incorrigible boy.

      The production of the audiobook seems to have been done pretty well. I liked the music, which had a sort of slouch-y, casual southern feel to it that fit perfectly. What was odd, though, was that the music seemed to occur at completely random intervals.
    • 3/5
      I really doubted this book would be a thriller, or energetic to read. This book makes you want to fall asleep while reading it. I am so sorry, but this book had so many POV'S I could not keep up. MY REVIEW; This book was a serious letdown. I thought there would be more action because it tells about a boys and his friends life in this story. NO ACTION. I liked some parts like when they were trying to find treasure and couldn't find it for like 3 chapters! No. Terrible absolutely did not like the writing. There was also different related stories to read while you finish Tom Sawyer but I decided NOT to read it.
    • 4/5
      I had never read the Adventures of Tom Sawyer except in a childhood version in Golden Books or something like that. I skipped right over to read Huck Finn. While this is definitely a children's book in many ways, Twain writes in such a way that adults still enjoy Tom and his picaresque adventures, both as nostalgia for our own childhoods and because the adult voice of Twain cannot help inserting his snide commentaries on humanity.
    • 5/5
      One of the books that I thought I had read but hadn't. It rushes along, adventure after adventure, capturing what it is is to be a child growing up.
    • 4/5
      I'd forgotten what a little trouble maker Tom was. It was a nice enjoyable read.
    • 2/5
      Cruciaal is de ontmoeting met Huckleberry Finn. Vinnige dialogen; Mooie impressie van jongensachtige gevoelens en leefwereld, genre Witte van Zichem (Claes is duidelijk maar een doordrukje van Twain). Toch maar matig boek.
    • 3/5
      I think Mark Twain is overrated.
    • 4/5
      One point less for mocking Christianity
    • 1/5
      The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was required reading in high school, and I absolutely hated it. Although, I have enjoyed other works by Mark Twain I found this incredibly hard to read. I think part of the problem is me being able to follow the southern dialect. It was really hard for me. I really didn't care for the story, and very excited for it to be over with.
    • 4/5
      American classic, all boys and men should read often
    • 5/5
      It is perhaps unusual to read this book aimed at boys for the first time at the age of 45, but I really enjoyed it. Tom is an appealingly mischievous boy whose adventures, fears and insecurities are fairly timeless; though written in 1876, the book could be set in the modern era in a small town or rural area with relatively few changes. The other main characters, Aunt Polly, Joe Harper, Becky Thatcher and of course Huck Finn are equally attractively drawn. From the modern perspective the character of Injun Joe is portrayed as a wholly negative and stereotypical "savage", but this is lifted by Tom's compassion towards him at the end. Very enjoyable read for all ages. 5/5
    • 5/5
      I plan to make a practice this year of re-reading books, not just books I enjoyed in my childhood and adolescent, but books from my own library that I keep because" I might want to read them 'someday'". I read Tom Sawyer more than once, more than twice, I don't actually remember how many times. At some point I began to understand that much of what Twain writes from Tom's point of view was ironic and therefore funny. I finally got the joke. This time I appreciated Twain's craftsmanship with plot, as well as character. Obviously, this book is a classic. I will probably read it again some year.
    • 5/5
      It had been some time since I'd read this, and I'm fixing to read a new novel about Huck Finn's Pap, so I thought it best to repair to the source material first. Being the mother of a boy has certainly changed my reaction to this particular book. What struck me as hilarious fiction once now rings true and is not so mirth-inducing. The nature of the boy as boy seems unchanged though lo, these many years have passed. Twain's not dated in the least, and is still one of the funniest writers ever.
    • 4/5
      The story was cute, but man that kid needed some discipline! It's hard to believe how wild children used to be. But it did make for an entertaining and amusing story.
    • 3/5
      Never been much of a Twain fan, but TS is much more enjoyable than Huckleberry Finn. The Rockwell apintings are gorgeous.
    • 5/5
      I've read this book at least twice, probably more, but it's been a while. Still there are scenes that stick in my mind -- the famous fence whitewashing sequence, the one where Tom and Huck attend their own funeral, and others. Although The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is a deeper book, and probably deserves six stars, I can't downgrade Tom Sawyer because of that. Certainly every American - whether child or adult, Mayflower descendant, American Indian or recent immigrant -- should read both books.
    • 4/5
      A great adventure...
    • 3/5
      I thought it was a fun read, but enjoyed it more when I was younger. I think Mark Twain has an excellent way of making you sympathize with the characters. I found myself shaking my head at some Tom's antics and laughing at the same time.
    • 3/5
      Must read for all young boys and girls...
    • 5/5
      Seriously a great read! I remember hating this as a kid - being forced to read it - with 25+ years of experiences under my belt since I last picked up this book, it's just an amazing read. As adults, we really just need to say fuck it, let's see what kind of trouble I can get myself into more often ...
    • 5/5
      We read the book in school in Germany. I learned English with the book. The reading was good. I like the story. But some words are difficult. The school edition has word help that was good for me. I want to read Huckelberry Finn next.
    • 3/5
      I have heard about this American classic for so long, and I love other Twain books, I thought it was going to be the end all of end alls, but I was disappointed.
    • 3/5
      This was okay. I really found it slow and dragging at times just like Huck Finn. I didn't really like Tom. Huck Finn is a more funny storyteller. I think this is more of a boy's book and also good for the big screen.
    • 3/5
      Great Starter

      Just getting back to reading in earnest, figured I'd start with some classics. Still twinge at the "n" word, but it's a cultural sign of those times. Imagination and exploration. Kids used to have it. Kids used to could explore.
    • 2/5
      underwhelmed by this book. not sure why this is so famous and considered a classic.
    • 4/5
      Charming bit of Americana, and serves as a build up to Huckleberry Finn, Twain's masterwork.
    • 4/5
      The standard by which all other boys' adventure stories are judged. More episodic than I'd have liked (so that it sometimes was hard to follow which actions were related to which), but still fun to read. I can now say that I've read (more or less) Tom Sawyer, rather than just scrubbing my toe in the dirt and looking abashed when the topic of literary classics comes up.
    • 4/5
      This is a part of growing up and needs to be read earlier rather than later.

    Book preview

    The Adventures of Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain

    THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

    BY MARK TWAIN

    A Digireads.com Book

    Digireads.com Publishing

    Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-2263-9

    Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-59625-018-5

    This edition copyright © 2011

    Please visit www.digireads.com

    CONTENTS

    PREFACE

    CHAPTER I

    CHAPTER II

    CHAPTER III

    CHAPTER IV

    CHAPTER V

    CHAPTER VI

    CHAPTER VII

    CHAPTER VIII

    CHAPTER IX

    CHAPTER X

    CHAPTER XI

    CHAPTER XII

    CHAPTER XIII

    CHAPTER XIV

    CHAPTER XV

    CHAPTER XVI

    CHAPTER XVII

    CHAPTER XVIII

    CHAPTER XIX

    CHAPTER XX

    CHAPTER XXI

    CHAPTER XXII

    CHAPTER XXIII

    CHAPTER XXIV

    CHAPTER XXV

    CHAPTER XXVI

    CHAPTER XXVII

    CHAPTER XXVIII

    CHAPTER XXIX

    CHAPTER XXX

    CHAPTER XXXI

    CHAPTER XXXII

    CHAPTER XXXIII

    CHAPTER XXXIV

    CHAPTER XXXV

    CHAPTER XXXVI

    CONCLUSION

    PREFACE

    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.

    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,{1} and 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 darn'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 gwyne 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 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 dingdong-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

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