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<h2> CHAPTER IV </h2>
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<p>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.</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>“Blessed are the—a—a—”</p>
<p>“Poor”—</p>
<p>“Yes—poor; blessed are the poor—a—a—”</p>
<p>“In spirit—”</p>
<p>“In spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they—they—”</p>
<p>“<i>Theirs</i>—”</p>
<p>“For <i>theirs</i>. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is
the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they—they—”</p>
<p>“Sh—”</p>
<p>“For they—a—”</p>
<p>“S, H, A—”</p>
<p>“For they S, H—Oh, I don’t know what it is!”</p>
<p>“<i>Shall</i>!”</p>
<p>“Oh, <i>shall</i>! 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 shall—a—shall <i>what</i>? Why don’t
you tell me, Mary?—what do you want to be so mean for?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Tom, you poor thick-headed thing, I’m not teasing you. I
wouldn’t do that. You must go and learn it again. Don’t you be
discouraged, Tom, you’ll manage it—and if you do, I’ll
give you something ever so nice. There, now, that’s a good boy.”</p>
<p>“All right! What is it, Mary, tell me what it is.”</p>
<p>“Never you mind, Tom. You know if I say it’s nice, it is nice.”</p>
<p>“You bet you that’s so, Mary. All right, I’ll tackle it
again.”</p>
<p>And he did “tackle it again”—and under the double
pressure of curiosity and prospective gain he did it with such spirit that
he accomplished a shining success. Mary gave him a brand-new “Barlow”
knife worth twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that
swept his system shook him to his foundations. True, the knife would not
cut anything, but it was a “sure-enough” Barlow, and there was
inconceivable grandeur in that—though where the Western boys ever
got the idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its
injury is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. Tom
contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to begin on
the bureau, when he was called off to dress for Sunday-school.</p>
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<p>Mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went
outside the door and set the basin on a little bench there; then he dipped
the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves; poured out
the water on the ground, gently, and then entered the kitchen and began to
wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the door. But Mary removed
the towel and said:</p>
<p>“Now ain’t you ashamed, Tom. You mustn’t be so bad.
Water won’t hurt you.”</p>
<p>Tom was a trifle disconcerted. The basin was refilled, and this time he
stood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big breath
and began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut and
groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of suds and
water was dripping from his face. But when he emerged from the towel, he
was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped short at his
chin and his jaws, like a mask; below and beyond this line there was a
dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and
backward around his neck. Mary took him in hand, and when she was done
with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of color, and his
saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought into a
dainty and symmetrical general effect. [He privately smoothed out the
curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his hair close down to his
head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and his own filled his life with
bitterness.] Then Mary got out a suit of his clothing that had been used
only on Sundays during two years—they were simply called his “other
clothes”—and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe. The
girl “put him to rights” after he had dressed himself; she
buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt collar
down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with his speckled
straw hat. He now looked exceedingly improved and uncomfortable. He was
fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there was a restraint about whole
clothes and cleanliness that galled him. He hoped that Mary would forget
his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she coated them thoroughly with
tallow, as was the custom, and brought them out. He lost his temper and
said he was always being made to do everything he didn’t want to do.
But Mary said, persuasively:</p>
<p>“Please, Tom—that’s a good boy.”</p>
<p>So he got into the shoes snarling. Mary was soon ready, and the three
children set out for Sunday-school—a place that Tom hated with his
whole heart; but Sid and Mary were fond of it.</p>
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<p>Sabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past ten; and then church
service. Two of the children always remained for the sermon voluntarily,
and the other always remained too—for stronger reasons. The church’s
high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three hundred persons; the
edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a sort of pine board tree-box
on top of it for a steeple. At the door Tom dropped back a step and
accosted a Sunday-dressed comrade:</p>
<p>“Say, Billy, got a yaller ticket?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“What’ll you take for her?”</p>
<p>“What’ll you give?”</p>
<p>“Piece of lickrish and a fish-hook.”</p>
<p>“Less see ’em.”</p>
<p>Tom exhibited. They were satisfactory, and the property changed hands.
Then Tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and some
small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. He waylaid other boys as
they came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten or fifteen
minutes longer. He entered the church, now, with a swarm of clean and
noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a quarrel with the
first boy that came handy. The teacher, a grave, elderly man, interfered;
then turned his back a moment and Tom pulled a boy’s hair in the
next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy turned around; stuck
a pin in another boy, presently, in order to hear him say “Ouch!”
and got a new reprimand from his teacher. Tom’s whole class were of
a pattern—restless, noisy, and troublesome. When they came to recite
their lessons, not one of them knew his verses perfectly, but had to be
prompted all along. However, they worried through, and each got his reward—in
small blue tickets, each with a passage of Scripture on it; each blue
ticket was pay for two verses of the recitation. Ten blue tickets equalled
a red one, and could be exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a
yellow one; for ten yellow tickets the superintendent gave a very plainly
bound Bible (worth forty cents in those easy times) to the pupil. How many
of my readers would have the industry and application to memorize two
thousand verses, even for a Dore Bible? And yet Mary had acquired two
Bibles in this way—it was the patient work of two years—and a
boy of German parentage had won four or five. He once recited three
thousand verses without stopping; but the strain upon his mental faculties
was too great, and he was little better than an idiot from that day forth—a
grievous misfortune for the school, for on great occasions, before
company, the superintendent (as Tom expressed it) had always made this boy
come out and “spread himself.” Only the older pupils managed
to keep their tickets and stick to their tedious work long enough to get a
Bible, and so the delivery of one of these prizes was a rare and
noteworthy circumstance; the successful pupil was so great and conspicuous
for that day that on the spot every scholar’s heart was fired with a
fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks. It is possible that
Tom’s mental stomach had never really hungered for one of those
prizes, but unquestionably his entire being had for many a day longed for
the glory and the eclat that came with it.</p>
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<p>In due course the superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with a
closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted between its
leaves, and commanded attention. When a Sunday-school superintendent makes
his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the hand is as necessary as is
the inevitable sheet of music in the hand of a singer who stands forward
on the platform and sings a solo at a concert—though why, is a
mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet of music is ever referred
to by the sufferer. This superintendent was a slim creature of
thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair; he wore a stiff
standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his ears and whose sharp
points curved forward abreast the corners of his mouth—a fence that
compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning of the whole body when a
side view was required; his chin was propped on a spreading cravat which
was as broad and as long as a bank-note, and had fringed ends; his boot
toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion of the day, like
sleigh-runners—an effect patiently and laboriously produced by the
young men by sitting with their toes pressed against a wall for hours
together. Mr. Walters was very earnest of mien, and very sincere and
honest at heart; and he held sacred things and places in such reverence,
and so separated them from worldly matters, that unconsciously to himself
his Sunday-school voice had acquired a peculiar intonation which was
wholly absent on week-days. He began after this fashion:</p>
<p>“Now, children, I want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty
as you can and give me all your attention for a minute or two. There—that
is it. That is the way good little boys and girls should do. I see one
little girl who is looking out of the window—I am afraid she thinks
I am out there somewhere—perhaps up in one of the trees making a
speech to the little birds. [Applausive titter.] I want to tell you how
good it makes me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces assembled
in a place like this, learning to do right and be good.” And so
forth and so on. It is not necessary to set down the rest of the oration.
It was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is familiar to us all.</p>
<p>The latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights and
other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings and
whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases of
isolated and incorruptible rocks like Sid and Mary. But now every sound
ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of Mr. Walters’ voice, and the
conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent gratitude.</p>
<p>A good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was
more or less rare—the entrance of visitors: lawyer Thatcher,
accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged
gentleman with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the
latter’s wife. The lady was leading a child. Tom had been restless
and full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too—he could
not meet Amy Lawrence’s eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. But
when he saw this small newcomer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a
moment. The next moment he was “showing off” with all his
might—cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces—in a word,
using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her
applause. His exaltation had but one alloy—the memory of his
humiliation in this angel’s garden—and that record in sand was
fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it
now.</p>
<p>The visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as Mr.
Walters’ speech was finished, he introduced them to the school. The
middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage—no less a
one than the county judge—altogether the most august creation these
children had ever looked upon—and they wondered what kind of
material he was made of—and they half wanted to hear him roar, and
were half afraid he might, too. He was from Constantinople, twelve miles
away—so he had travelled, and seen the world—these very eyes
had looked upon the county court-house—which was said to have a tin
roof. The awe which these reflections inspired was attested by the
impressive silence and the ranks of staring eyes. This was the great Judge
Thatcher, brother of their own lawyer. Jeff Thatcher immediately went
forward, to be familiar with the great man and be envied by the school. It
would have been music to his soul to hear the whisperings:</p>
<p>“Look at him, Jim! He’s a going up there. Say—look! he’s
a going to shake hands with him—he <i>is</i> shaking hands with him!
By jings, don’t you wish you was Jeff?”</p>
<p>Mr. Walters fell to “showing off,” with all sorts of official
bustlings and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments, discharging
directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a target. The
librarian “showed off”—running hither and thither with
his arms full of books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that
insect authority delights in. The young lady teachers “showed off”—bending
sweetly over pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting pretty warning
fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly. The young
gentlemen teachers “showed off” with small scoldings and other
little displays of authority and fine attention to discipline—and
most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up at the library, by
the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had to be done over again
two or three times (with much seeming vexation). The little girls “showed
off” in various ways, and the little boys “showed off”
with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads and the murmur
of scufflings. And above it all the great man sat and beamed a majestic
judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his
own grandeur—for he was “showing off,” too.</p>
<p>There was only one thing wanting to make Mr. Walters’ ecstasy
complete, and that was a chance to deliver a Bible-prize and exhibit a
prodigy. Several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough—he
had been around among the star pupils inquiring. He would have given
worlds, now, to have that German lad back again with a sound mind.</p>
<p>And now at this moment, when hope was dead, Tom Sawyer came forward with
nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a
Bible. This was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Walters was not
expecting an application from this source for the next ten years. But
there was no getting around it—here were the certified checks, and
they were good for their face. Tom was therefore elevated to a place with
the Judge and the other elect, and the great news was announced from
headquarters. It was the most stunning surprise of the decade, and so
profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial
one’s altitude, and the school had two marvels to gaze upon in place
of one. The boys were all eaten up with envy—but those that suffered
the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too late that they themselves
had contributed to this hated splendor by trading tickets to Tom for the
wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing privileges. These despised
themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the
grass.</p>
<p>The prize was delivered to Tom with as much effusion as the superintendent
could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true
gush, for the poor fellow’s instinct taught him that there was a
mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply
preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of
Scriptural wisdom on his premises—a dozen would strain his capacity,
without a doubt.</p>
<p>Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in her
face—but he wouldn’t look. She wondered; then she was just a
grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went—came again; she
watched; a furtive glance told her worlds—and then her heart broke,
and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated
everybody. Tom most of all (she thought).</p>
<p>Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would
hardly come, his heart quaked—partly because of the awful greatness
of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would have liked to
fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The Judge put his hand
on Tom’s head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what
his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out:</p>
<p>“Tom.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, not Tom—it is—”</p>
<p>“Thomas.”</p>
<p>“Ah, that’s it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That’s
very well. But you’ve another one I daresay, and you’ll tell
it to me, won’t you?”</p>
<p>“Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas,” said Walters,
“and say sir. You mustn’t forget your manners.”</p>
<p>“Thomas Sawyer—sir.”</p>
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<p>“That’s it! That’s a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly
little fellow. Two thousand verses is a great many—very, very great
many. And you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them;
for knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it’s
what makes great men and good men; you’ll be a great man and a good
man yourself, some day, Thomas, and then you’ll look back and say,
It’s all owing to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my
boyhood—it’s all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to
learn—it’s all owing to the good superintendent, who
encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a beautiful Bible—a
splendid elegant Bible—to keep and have it all for my own, always—it’s
all owing to right bringing up! That is what you will say, Thomas—and
you wouldn’t take any money for those two thousand verses—no
indeed you wouldn’t. And now you wouldn’t mind telling me and
this lady some of the things you’ve learned—no, I know you
wouldn’t—for we are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no
doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples. Won’t you tell
us the names of the first two that were appointed?”</p>
<p>Tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking sheepish. He blushed, now,
and his eyes fell. Mr. Walters’ heart sank within him. He said to
himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest question—why
<i>did</i> the Judge ask him? Yet he felt obliged to speak up and say:</p>
<p>“Answer the gentleman, Thomas—don’t be afraid.”</p>
<p>Tom still hung fire.</p>
<p>“Now I know you’ll tell me,” said the lady. “The
names of the first two disciples were—”</p>
<p>“<i>David And Goliah!</i>”</p>
<p>Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.</p>
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