The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer E-Book

Mark Twain

• Herausgeber: Charles Fred
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain is an 1876 novel about a young boy growing up along the Mississippi River. It is set in the fictional town of St. Petersburg, inspired by Hannibal, Missouri, where Twain lived.

Leseprobe

THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER

MARK TWAIN

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,

tomorrow, 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, trouble-some 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

gee-miny 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 un-disturbed. 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 im-pressive

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 as

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, mean-time, describing stately circles--for it was

representing a forty-foot wheel.

“Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! 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 door-knob, 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 white-washed, 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

pan-talettes. 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