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

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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.