CHAPTER ONE

HUCKLEBERRY FINN

Scene: The Mississippi Valley

You don't know about me, without you have read a book by the name of
The Adventures ?I'M'," Sawyer; but that ain't 110 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
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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 as 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 sivilixe 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 wasn't really anything the matter with them,—that is, nothing only

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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 dean, 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. 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,
Huddeberry—set up straight" and pretty soon she would say, "Don't
gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry—why don't you try to behave?"
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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 to 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 to mournful; and I heard an owl, away off, who -
whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog
crying 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

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about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood,
and to can't rest

easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. I got to
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 to 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

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then I put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed.
Then I slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure
enough, there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.

CHAPTER TWO

We went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the
widow's garden, stooping down to as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads.
When we was passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and made a noise. We
scrouched down and laid still. Miss Watson's big nigger, named Jim, was setting
in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light
behind him. He got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening.
Then he says:

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 "Who dah?"
He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right
between us; we could a touched hiss, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes and
minutes that there ware's a sound, and we all there so dose together. There
was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn't scratch it; and then
my ear begun to itch; and next coy back, right between my shoulders. Seemed
like I'd die if I couldn't scratch. Well, I've noticed that thing plenty times since.
If you are with the quality, or at a fimeral, or trying to go to sleep when you
ain't sleepy—if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why
you will itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says:
"Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats of I didn' hear sumrn. Well,
I know that I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears
it agin."
So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up
against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them