Chapter I
You don’t know about me without you have read a book by
the name of The dventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. Thatbook 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 anybody,
being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing
that had some good in it. And she took snuff, too; of course that was all
right, because she done it herself.
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