WHEN I got there it was all still and Sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; —
the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody’s dead and gone; —
and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel like it’s spirits whispering – spirits that’s been dead ever so many years – and you always think they’re talking about YOU. As a general thing it makes a body wish HE was dead, too, and done with it all.
Phelps’ was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and they all look alike. —
A rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump on to a horse; —
some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed off; —
big double log-house for the white folks – hewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; —
round-log kitchen, with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the house; —
log smokehouse back of the kitchen; three little log nigger-cabins in a row t’other side the smoke-house; —
one little hut all by itself away down against the back fence, and some outbuildings down a piece the other side; —
ashhopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; —
bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; —
more hounds asleep round about; about three shade trees away off in a corner; —
some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence; —
outside of the fence a garden and a watermelon patch; —
then the cotton fields begins, and after the fields the woods.
I went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen. —
When I got a little ways I heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again; —
and then I knowed for certain I wished I was dead – for that IS the lonesomest sound in the whole world.
I went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting to Providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come; —
for I’d noticed that Providence always did put the right words in my mouth if I left it alone.
When I got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went for me, and of course I stopped and faced them, and kept still. —
And such another powwow as they made! In a quarter of a minute I was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say – spokes made out of dogs – circle of fifteen of them packed together around me, with their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; —
and more a-coming; you could see them sailing over fences and around corners from everywheres.
A nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, “Begone YOU Tige! —
you Spot! begone sah!” and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent them howling, and then the rest followed; —
and the next second half of them come back, wagging their tails around me, and making friends with me. —
There ain’t no harm in a hound, nohow.
And behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung on to their mother’s gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful, the way they always do. —
And here comes the white woman running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand; —
and behind her comes her little white children, acting the same way the little niggers was going. —
She was smiling all over so she could hardly stand – and says:
“It’s YOU, at last! – AIN’T it?”
I out with a “Yes’m” before I thought.
She grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both hands and shook and shook; —
and the tears come in her eyes, and run down over; —
and she couldn’t seem to hug and shake enough, and kept saying, “You don’t look as much like your mother as I reckoned you would; —
but law sakes, I don’t care for that, I’m so glad to see you! —
Dear, dear, it does seem like I could eat you up! —
Children, it’s your cousin Tom! – tell him howdy.”
But they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths, and hid behind her. So she run on:
“Lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away – or did you get your breakfast on the boat?”
I said I had got it on the boat. So then she started for the house, leading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. —
When we got there she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and says:
“Now I can have a GOOD look at you; and, laws-ame, I’ve been hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it’s come at last! —
We been expecting you a couple of days and more. —
What kep’ you? – boat get aground?”
“Yes’m – she –”
“Don’t say yes’m – say Aunt Sally. Where’d she get aground?”
I didn’t rightly know what to say, because I didn’t know whether the boat would be coming up the river or down. —
But I go a good deal on instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up – from down towards Orleans. —
That didn’t help me much, though; for I didn’t know the names of bars down that way. —
I see I’d got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on – or – Now I struck an idea, and fetched it out:
“It warn’t the grounding – that didn’t keep us back but a little. We blowed out a cylinder-head.”
“Good gracious! anybody hurt?”
“No’m. Killed a nigger.”
“Well, it’s lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. —
Two years ago last Christmas your uncle Silas was coming up from Newrleans on the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man. —
And I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist. —
Your uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his people very well. —
Yes, I remember now, he DID die. Mortification set in, and they had to amputate him. —
But it didn’t save him. Yes, it was mortification – that was it. —
He turned blue all over, and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. —
They say he was a sight to look at. Your uncle’s been up to the town every day to fetch you. —
And he’s gone again, not more’n an hour ago; he’ll be back any minute now. —
You must a met him on the road, didn’t you? —
– oldish man, with a –”
“No, I didn’t see nobody, Aunt Sally. The boat landed just at daylight, and I left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time and not get here too soon; —
and so I come down the back way.”
“Who’d you give the baggage to?”
“Nobody.”
“Why, child, it ’ll be stole!”
“Not where I hid it I reckon it won’t,” I says.
“How’d you get your breakfast so early on the boat?”
It was kinder thin ice, but I says:
“The captain see me standing around, and told me I better have something to eat before I went ashore; so he took me in the texas to the officers’ lunch, and give me all I wanted.”
I was getting so uneasy I couldn’t listen good. I had my mind on the children all the time; —
I wanted to get them out to one side and pump them a little, and find out who I was. —
But I couldn’t get no show, Mrs. Phelps kept it up and run on so. —
Pretty soon she made the cold chills streak all down my back, because she says:
“But here we’re a-running on this way, and you hain’t told me a word about Sis, nor any of them. —
Now I’ll rest my works a little, and you start up yourn; —
just tell me EVERYTHING – tell me all about ’m all every one of ’m; —
and how they are, and what they’re doing, and what they told you to tell me; —
and every last thing you can think of.”
Well, I see I was up a stump – and up it good. —
Providence had stood by me this fur all right, but I was hard and tight aground now. —
I see it warn’t a bit of use to try to go ahead – I’d got to throw up my hand. —
So I says to myself, here’s another place where I got to resk the truth. —
I opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind the bed, and says:
“Here he comes! Stick your head down lower – there, that’ll do; you can’t be seen now. —
Don’t you let on you’re here. I’ll play a joke on him. —
Children, don’t you say a word.”
I see I was in a fix now. But it warn’t no use to worry; —
there warn’t nothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to stand from under when the lightning struck.
I had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in; —
then the bed hid him. Mrs. Phelps she jumps for him, and says:
“Has he come?”
“No,” says her husband.
“Good-NESS gracious!” she says, “what in the warld can have become of him?”
“I can’t imagine,” says the old gentleman; “and I must say it makes me dreadful uneasy.”
“Uneasy!” she says; “I’m ready to go distracted! He MUST a come; —
and you’ve missed him along the road. I KNOW it’s so – something tells me so.”
“Why, Sally, I COULDN’T miss him along the road – YOU know that.”
“But oh, dear, dear, what WILL Sis say! He must a come! You must a missed him. He –”
“Oh, don’t distress me any more’n I’m already distressed. —
I don’t know what in the world to make of it. —
I’m at my wit’s end, and I don’t mind acknowledging ’t I’m right down scared. —
But there’s no hope that he’s come; for he COULDN’T come and me miss him. —
Sally, it’s terrible – just terrible – something’s happened to the boat, sure!”
“Why, Silas! Look yonder! – up the road! – ain’t that somebody coming?”
He sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give Mrs. Phelps the chance she wanted. —
She stooped down quick at the foot of the bed and give me a pull, and out I come; —
and when he turned back from the window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smiling like a house afire, and I standing pretty meek and sweaty alongside. —
The old gentleman stared, and says:
“Why, who’s that?”
“Who do you reckon ’t is?”
“I hain’t no idea. Who IS it?”
“It’s TOM SAWYER!”
By jings, I most slumped through the floor! But there warn’t no time to swap knives; —
the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook, and kept on shaking; —
and all the time how the woman did dance around and laugh and cry; —
and then how they both did fire off questions about Sid, and Mary, and the rest of the tribe.
But if they was joyful, it warn’t nothing to what I was; —
for it was like being born again, I was so glad to find out who I was. —
Well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it couldn’t hardly go any more, I had told them more about my family – I mean the Sawyer family – than ever happened to any six Sawyer families. —
And I explained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of White River, and it took us three days to fix it. —
Which was all right, and worked first-rate; —
because THEY didn’t know but what it would take three days to fix it. —
If I’d a called it a bolthead it would a done just as well.
Now I was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. —
Being Tom Sawyer was easy and comfortable, and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by I hear a steamboat coughing along down the river. —
Then I says to myself, s’pose Tom Sawyer comes down on that boat? —
And s’pose he steps in here any minute, and sings out my name before I can throw him a wink to keep quiet?
Well, I couldn’t HAVE it that way; it wouldn’t do at all. I must go up the road and waylay him. —
So I told the folks I reckoned I would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. —
The old gentleman was for going along with me, but I said no, I could drive the horse myself, and I druther he wouldn’t take no trouble about me.