Sawyer rid’ieule

là bố ri bus erit' i çişed gauge-cocks

eom' prê hend'

ĕx ist' ençè

per' son a' ting

ex change

ăn tić i pā tiên

me lo' di bus

ex'ê eu'ting

jew's'-harp' (jūz)

ả lăe ri tỷ lär' board' rê lue' tançè

in' sig nif'i eant, immaterial, unimportant.

HOW TOM SAWYER

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

měl' ăn ehŏl y

måg nif'i çent, grand in appearance, glorious.

WHITEWASHED HIS FENCE.

topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewash streak with the farreaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box, discouraged.

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-dongdong, 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 starboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-chow!" His right hand, meantime, describing stately circles-for it was representing a fortyfoot wheel.

"Let her go back on the larboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!" The left hand began to describe

circles.

"Stop the starboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the larboard! Come ahead on the starboard. Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chowow-ow! Get out that head-line. Lively, now! Comeout 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 engine, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! Sh't! Sh't! Sh't!" (trying the gaugecocks.)

Tom went on whitewashing-paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben stared a moment, and then said:

"Hi-yi! you're 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 rather 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?"

"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 daintly 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 fenceright here on the street, you know-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 in the way it's got to be done."

"No-is that so? Oh, come, now, let me just try, only just a little. I'd let you, if you was me, Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest Injin; but Aunt Polly—well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, but 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 let me try. Say-I'll give you the core of my apple."

"Well, here. No, Ben; now don't; I'm afraid-" "I'll give you all of it.”

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while Ben 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.