Reading Help Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain Ch.I-XV
That was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled their `
` legs against the bench in excess of contentment. `
` `
` "Was you ever at a circus?" said Tom. `
` `
` "Yes, and my pa's going to take me again some time, if I'm good." `
` `
` "I been to the circus three or four times--lots of times. Church ain't `
` shucks to a circus. There's things going on at a circus all the time. `
` I'm going to be a clown in a circus when I grow up." `
` `
` "Oh, are you! That will be nice. They're so lovely, all spotted up." `
` `
` "Yes, that's so. And they get slathers of money--most a dollar a day, `
` Ben Rogers says. Say, Becky, was you ever engaged?" `
` `
` "What's that?" `
` `
` "Why, engaged to be married." `
` `
` "No." `
` `
` "Would you like to?" `
` `
` "I reckon so. I don't know. What is it like?" `
` `
` "Like? Why it ain't like anything. You only just tell a boy you won't `
` ever have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss and that's `
` all. Anybody can do it." `
` `
` "Kiss? What do you kiss for?" `
` `
` "Why, that, you know, is to--well, they always do that." `
` `
` "Everybody?" `
` `
` "Why, yes, everybody that's in love with each other. Do you remember `
` what I wrote on the slate?" `
` `
` "Ye--yes." `
` `
` "What was it?" `
` `
` "I sha'n't tell you." `
` `
` "Shall I tell YOU?" `
` `
` "Ye--yes--but some other time." `
` `
` "No, now." `
` `
` "No, not now--to-morrow." `
` `
` "Oh, no, NOW. Please, Becky--I'll whisper it, I'll whisper it ever so `
` easy." `
` `
` Becky hesitating, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm `
` about her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth `
` close to her ear. And then he added: `
` `
` "Now you whisper it to me--just the same." `
` `
` She resisted, for a while, and then said: `
` `
` "You turn your face away so you can't see, and then I will. But you `
` mustn't ever tell anybody--WILL you, Tom? Now you won't, WILL you?" `
` `
` "No, indeed, indeed I won't. Now, Becky." `
` `
` He turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath `
` stirred his curls and whispered, "I--love--you!" `
` `
` Then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benches, `
` with Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her `
` little white apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and `
` pleaded: `
` `
` "Now, Becky, it's all done--all over but the kiss. Don't you be afraid `
` of that--it ain't anything at all. Please, Becky." And he tugged at her `
` apron and the hands. `
` `
` By and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing `
` with the struggle, came up and submitted. Tom kissed the red lips and `
` said: `
` `
` "Now it's all done, Becky. And always after this, you know, you ain't `
` ever to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody but `
` me, ever never and forever. Will you?" `
` `
` "No, I'll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I'll never marry `
` anybody but you--and you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either." `
` `
` "Certainly. Of course. That's PART of it. And always coming to school `
` or when we're going home, you're to walk with me, when there ain't `
` anybody looking--and you choose me and I choose you at parties, because `
` that's the way you do when you're engaged." `
` `
` "It's so nice. I never heard of it before." `
` `
` "Oh, it's ever so gay! Why, me and Amy Lawrence--" `
` `
` The big eyes told Tom his blunder and he stopped, confused. `
` `
` "Oh, Tom! Then I ain't the first you've ever been engaged to!" `
` `
` The child began to cry. Tom said: `
` `
` "Oh, don't cry, Becky, I don't care for her any more." `
` `
` "Yes, you do, Tom--you know you do." `
` `
` Tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and `
` turned her face to the wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with `
` soothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again. Then his pride was `
` up, and he strode away and went outside. He stood about, restless and `
` uneasy, for a while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping `
` she would repent and come to find him. But she did not. Then he began `
` to feel badly and fear that he was in the wrong. It was a hard struggle `
` with him to make new advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and `
` entered. She was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with `
` her face to the wall. Tom's heart smote him. He went to her and stood a `
` moment, not knowing exactly how to proceed. Then he said hesitatingly: `
` `
` "Becky, I--I don't care for anybody but you." `
` `
` No reply--but sobs. `
` `
` "Becky"--pleadingly. "Becky, won't you say something?" `
` `
` More sobs. `
` `
` Tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an `
` andiron, and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said: `
` `
` "Please, Becky, won't you take it?" `
` `
` She struck it to the floor. Then Tom marched out of the house and over `
` the hills and far away, to return to school no more that day. Presently `
` Becky began to suspect. She ran to the door; he was not in sight; she `
` flew around to the play-yard; he was not there. Then she called: `
` `
` "Tom! Come back, Tom!" `
` `
` She listened intently, but there was no answer. She had no companions `
` but silence and loneliness. So she sat down to cry again and upbraid `
` herself; and by this time the scholars began to gather again, and she `
` had to hide her griefs and still her broken heart and take up the cross `
` of a long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among the strangers `
` about her to exchange sorrows with. `
` `
` `
` `
` CHAPTER VIII `
` `
` TOM dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of `
` the track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog. He `
` crossed a small "branch" two or three times, because of a prevailing `
` juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit. Half an hour `
` later he was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit of `
` Cardiff Hill, and the schoolhouse was hardly distinguishable away off `
` in the valley behind him. He entered a dense wood, picked his pathless `
` way to the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading `
` oak. There was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had `
` even stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was `
` broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a `
` woodpecker, and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense `
` of loneliness the more profound. The boy's soul was steeped in `
` melancholy; his feelings were in happy accord with his surroundings. He `
` sat long with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, `
` meditating. It seemed to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and `
` he more than half envied Jimmy Hodges, so lately released; it must be `
` very peaceful, he thought, to lie and slumber and dream forever and `
` ever, with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing the `
` grass and the flowers over the grave, and nothing to bother and grieve `
` about, ever any more. If he only had a clean Sunday-school record he `
` could be willing to go, and be done with it all. Now as to this girl. `
` What had he done? Nothing. He had meant the best in the world, and been `
` treated like a dog--like a very dog. She would be sorry some day--maybe `
` when it was too late. Ah, if he could only die TEMPORARILY! `
` `
` But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one `
` constrained shape long at a time. Tom presently began to drift `
` insensibly back into the concerns of this life again. What if he turned `
` his back, now, and disappeared mysteriously? What if he went away--ever `
` so far away, into unknown countries beyond the seas--and never came `
` back any more! How would she feel then! The idea of being a clown `
` recurred to him now, only to fill him with disgust. For frivolity and `
` jokes and spotted tights were an offense, when they intruded themselves `
` upon a spirit that was exalted into the vague august realm of the `
` romantic. No, he would be a soldier, and return after long years, all `
` war-worn and illustrious. No--better still, he would join the Indians, `
` and hunt buffaloes and go on the warpath in the mountain ranges and the `
` trackless great plains of the Far West, and away in the future come `
` back a great chief, bristling with feathers, hideous with paint, and `
` prance into Sunday-school, some drowsy summer morning, with a `
` bloodcurdling war-whoop, and sear the eyeballs of all his companions `
` with unappeasable envy. But no, there was something gaudier even than `
` this. He would be a pirate! That was it! NOW his future lay plain `
` before him, and glowing with unimaginable splendor. How his name would `
` fill the world, and make people shudder! How gloriously he would go `
` plowing the dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the `
`
` legs against the bench in excess of contentment. `
` `
` "Was you ever at a circus?" said Tom. `
` `
` "Yes, and my pa's going to take me again some time, if I'm good." `
` `
` "I been to the circus three or four times--lots of times. Church ain't `
` shucks to a circus. There's things going on at a circus all the time. `
` I'm going to be a clown in a circus when I grow up." `
` `
` "Oh, are you! That will be nice. They're so lovely, all spotted up." `
` `
` "Yes, that's so. And they get slathers of money--most a dollar a day, `
` Ben Rogers says. Say, Becky, was you ever engaged?" `
` `
` "What's that?" `
` `
` "Why, engaged to be married." `
` `
` "No." `
` `
` "Would you like to?" `
` `
` "I reckon so. I don't know. What is it like?" `
` `
` "Like? Why it ain't like anything. You only just tell a boy you won't `
` ever have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss and that's `
` all. Anybody can do it." `
` `
` "Kiss? What do you kiss for?" `
` `
` "Why, that, you know, is to--well, they always do that." `
` `
` "Everybody?" `
` `
` "Why, yes, everybody that's in love with each other. Do you remember `
` what I wrote on the slate?" `
` `
` "Ye--yes." `
` `
` "What was it?" `
` `
` "I sha'n't tell you." `
` `
` "Shall I tell YOU?" `
` `
` "Ye--yes--but some other time." `
` `
` "No, now." `
` `
` "No, not now--to-morrow." `
` `
` "Oh, no, NOW. Please, Becky--I'll whisper it, I'll whisper it ever so `
` easy." `
` `
` Becky hesitating, Tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm `
` about her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth `
` close to her ear. And then he added: `
` `
` "Now you whisper it to me--just the same." `
` `
` She resisted, for a while, and then said: `
` `
` "You turn your face away so you can't see, and then I will. But you `
` mustn't ever tell anybody--WILL you, Tom? Now you won't, WILL you?" `
` `
` "No, indeed, indeed I won't. Now, Becky." `
` `
` He turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath `
` stirred his curls and whispered, "I--love--you!" `
` `
` Then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benches, `
` with Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her `
` little white apron to her face. Tom clasped her about her neck and `
` pleaded: `
` `
` "Now, Becky, it's all done--all over but the kiss. Don't you be afraid `
` of that--it ain't anything at all. Please, Becky." And he tugged at her `
` apron and the hands. `
` `
` By and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing `
` with the struggle, came up and submitted. Tom kissed the red lips and `
` said: `
` `
` "Now it's all done, Becky. And always after this, you know, you ain't `
` ever to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody but `
` me, ever never and forever. Will you?" `
` `
` "No, I'll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I'll never marry `
` anybody but you--and you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either." `
` `
` "Certainly. Of course. That's PART of it. And always coming to school `
` or when we're going home, you're to walk with me, when there ain't `
` anybody looking--and you choose me and I choose you at parties, because `
` that's the way you do when you're engaged." `
` `
` "It's so nice. I never heard of it before." `
` `
` "Oh, it's ever so gay! Why, me and Amy Lawrence--" `
` `
` The big eyes told Tom his blunder and he stopped, confused. `
` `
` "Oh, Tom! Then I ain't the first you've ever been engaged to!" `
` `
` The child began to cry. Tom said: `
` `
` "Oh, don't cry, Becky, I don't care for her any more." `
` `
` "Yes, you do, Tom--you know you do." `
` `
` Tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and `
` turned her face to the wall, and went on crying. Tom tried again, with `
` soothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again. Then his pride was `
` up, and he strode away and went outside. He stood about, restless and `
` uneasy, for a while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping `
` she would repent and come to find him. But she did not. Then he began `
` to feel badly and fear that he was in the wrong. It was a hard struggle `
` with him to make new advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and `
` entered. She was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with `
` her face to the wall. Tom's heart smote him. He went to her and stood a `
` moment, not knowing exactly how to proceed. Then he said hesitatingly: `
` `
` "Becky, I--I don't care for anybody but you." `
` `
` No reply--but sobs. `
` `
` "Becky"--pleadingly. "Becky, won't you say something?" `
` `
` More sobs. `
` `
` Tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an `
` andiron, and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said: `
` `
` "Please, Becky, won't you take it?" `
` `
` She struck it to the floor. Then Tom marched out of the house and over `
` the hills and far away, to return to school no more that day. Presently `
` Becky began to suspect. She ran to the door; he was not in sight; she `
` flew around to the play-yard; he was not there. Then she called: `
` `
` "Tom! Come back, Tom!" `
` `
` She listened intently, but there was no answer. She had no companions `
` but silence and loneliness. So she sat down to cry again and upbraid `
` herself; and by this time the scholars began to gather again, and she `
` had to hide her griefs and still her broken heart and take up the cross `
` of a long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among the strangers `
` about her to exchange sorrows with. `
` `
` `
` `
` CHAPTER VIII `
` `
` TOM dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of `
` the track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog. He `
` crossed a small "branch" two or three times, because of a prevailing `
` juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit. Half an hour `
` later he was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit of `
` Cardiff Hill, and the schoolhouse was hardly distinguishable away off `
` in the valley behind him. He entered a dense wood, picked his pathless `
` way to the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading `
` oak. There was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had `
` even stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was `
` broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a `
` woodpecker, and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense `
` of loneliness the more profound. The boy's soul was steeped in `
` melancholy; his feelings were in happy accord with his surroundings. He `
` sat long with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, `
` meditating. It seemed to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and `
` he more than half envied Jimmy Hodges, so lately released; it must be `
` very peaceful, he thought, to lie and slumber and dream forever and `
` ever, with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing the `
` grass and the flowers over the grave, and nothing to bother and grieve `
` about, ever any more. If he only had a clean Sunday-school record he `
` could be willing to go, and be done with it all. Now as to this girl. `
` What had he done? Nothing. He had meant the best in the world, and been `
` treated like a dog--like a very dog. She would be sorry some day--maybe `
` when it was too late. Ah, if he could only die TEMPORARILY! `
` `
` But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one `
` constrained shape long at a time. Tom presently began to drift `
` insensibly back into the concerns of this life again. What if he turned `
` his back, now, and disappeared mysteriously? What if he went away--ever `
` so far away, into unknown countries beyond the seas--and never came `
` back any more! How would she feel then! The idea of being a clown `
` recurred to him now, only to fill him with disgust. For frivolity and `
` jokes and spotted tights were an offense, when they intruded themselves `
` upon a spirit that was exalted into the vague august realm of the `
` romantic. No, he would be a soldier, and return after long years, all `
` war-worn and illustrious. No--better still, he would join the Indians, `
` and hunt buffaloes and go on the warpath in the mountain ranges and the `
` trackless great plains of the Far West, and away in the future come `
` back a great chief, bristling with feathers, hideous with paint, and `
` prance into Sunday-school, some drowsy summer morning, with a `
` bloodcurdling war-whoop, and sear the eyeballs of all his companions `
` with unappeasable envy. But no, there was something gaudier even than `
` this. He would be a pirate! That was it! NOW his future lay plain `
` before him, and glowing with unimaginable splendor. How his name would `
` fill the world, and make people shudder! How gloriously he would go `
` plowing the dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the `
`