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									Excerpt from “The Autobiography of Mark Twain”

About once a year some pious public library banishes Huck Finn from its children’s department, and on the
same plea always—that Huck, the neglected and untaught son of a town drunkard, is given to lying, when in
difficulty and hard pressed, and is therefore a bad example for young people, and a damager of their morals.

Two or three years ago I was nearby when one of these banishments was decreed and advertised, and I went
over and asked the librarian about it, and he said yes, Huck was banished for lying. I asked,

“Is there nothing else against him?”

“No, I think not.”

“Do you banish all books that are likely to defile young morals, or do you stop with Huck?”

“We do not discriminate; we banish all that are hurtful to young morals.”

I picked up a book, and said—

“I see several copies of this book lying around. Are the young forbidden to read it?”

“The Bible? Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“That is a strange question to ask.”

“Very well, then I withdraw it. Are you acquainted with the passages in Huck which are held to be
objectionable?”

He said he was; and at my request he took pen and paper and proceeded to write them down for me.
Meantime I stepped to a desk and wrote down some extracts from the Bible. I showed them to him and said I
would take it as a favor if he would attach his extracts to mine and post them on the wall, so that the people
could examine them and see which of the two sets they would prefer to have their young boys and girls read.

He replied coldly that he was willing to post the extracts which he had made, but not those which I had made.

“Why?”

He replied—still coldly—that he did not wish to discuss the matter. I asked if he had some boys and girls in his
family, and he said he had. I asked—

“Do you ever read to them these extracts which I have made?”

“Of course not!”

“You don’t need to. They read them to themselves, clandestinely. All Protestant children of both sexes do it,
and have been doing it for several centuries. You did it yourself when you were a boy. Isn’t it so?”

He hesitated, then said no. I said—

“You have lied, and you know it. I think you have been reading Huck Finn, yourself, and damaging your
morals.”
Excerpt from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a
song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face and a
spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill,
beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable
Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.

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
topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-
reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at the
gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from the town pump had always been hateful work in
Tom’s eyes, before, but now it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company at the pump. White,
mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling,
fighting, skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never
got back with a bucket of water under an hour – and even then somebody generally had to go after him. Tom said:

“Say, Jim, I’ll fetch the water if you’ll whitewash some.”

Jim shook his head and said:

“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say
she spec’ Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ‘long an’ ‘tend to my own business – she
‘lowed she’d ‘tend to de whitewashin’.”

“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket – I won’t be gone only
a a minute. She won’t ever know.”

“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’ tar de head off’n me. ‘Deed she would.”

“She! She never licks anybody – whacks ’em over the head with her thimble – and who cares for that, I’d like to
know. She talks awful, but talk don’t hurt – anyways it don’t if she don’t cry. Jim, I’ll give you a marvel. I’ll give you a
white alley!”

Jim began to waver.

“White alley, Jim! And it’s a bully taw.”

“My! Dat’s a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I’s powerful ‘fraid ole missis – ”

“And besides, if you will I’ll show you my sore toe.”

Jim was only human – this attraction was too much for him. He put down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over
the toe with absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he was flying down the
street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field
with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye. But Tom’s energy did not last. 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-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As he drew near, he slackened
speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to star-board 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 stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow! Chow!” His right hand, meantime, describing
stately circles – for it was representing a forty-foot wheel.

“Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!” The left hand began to describe circles.

“Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside
turn over slow! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! Lively now! Come – out 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 engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling! Sh’t! s’h’t! sh’t!” (trying the gauge-cocks).

Tom went on whitewashing – paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben stared a moment and then said: “Hi- yi !
You’re up 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 druther 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?”

The brush continued to move.

“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 daintily 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 fence – right here on
the street, you know – but 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 the way it’s got to be done.”

“No – is that so? Oh come, now – lemme, just try. Only just a little – I’d let you, if you was me, Tom.”

“Ben, I’d like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly – well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn’t let him; Sid wanted to do it,
and 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 lemme try. Say – I’ll give you the core of my apple.”

“Well, here – No, Ben, now don’t. I’m afeard – ”

“I’ll give you all of it!”

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri
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. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every
little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next
chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a
string to swing it with – and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from
being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had besides the things
before mentioned, twelve marbles,part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a
key that wouldn’t unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of
tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar – but no dog – the handle of a
knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.

He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while – plenty of company – and the fence had three coats of whitewash
on it! If he hadn’t run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action,
without knowing it – namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the
thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have
comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is
not obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-
mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in
England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the
privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work
and then they would resign.

The boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place in his worldly circumstances, and then
wended toward headquarters to report.
Excerpt from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but
that ain't no 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 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 us 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 sivilize 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 warn't really anything the
matter with them--that is, nothing only 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 clean, 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, Huckleberry--
set up straight"; and pretty soon she would say, "Don't gap and stretch like that, Huckleberry--why don't you try
to behave?" 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 so 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 lone-some I most wished I was dead. The stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods
ever so 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 about something that's on its mind and can't
make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. I
got so downhearted 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 so 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 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.

								
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