Huck

Don't talk about it, Tom. I've tried it, and it don't work; it don't work, Tom. It ain't for me; I ain't used to it. The widder's good to me, and friendly; but I can't stand them ways. She makes me get up just at the same time every morning; she makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she won't let me sleep in the woodshed; I got to wear them blamed clothes that just smothers me, Tom; they don't seem to any air git through 'em, somehow; and they're so rotten nice that I can't set down, nor lay down, nor roll around anywher's; I hain't slid on a cellar-door for -- well, it 'pears to be years; I got to go to church and sweat and sweat -- I hate them ornery sermons! I can't ketch a fly in there, I can't chaw. I got to wear shoes all Sunday. The widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up by a bell -- everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't stand it. Tom, it don't make no difference that everybody does it. I ain't everybody, and I can't STAND it. It's awful to be tied up so. And grub comes too easy -- I don't take no interest in vittles, that way. I got to ask to go a-fishing; I got to ask to go in a-swimming -- dern'd if I hain't got to ask to do everything. Well, I'd got to talk so nice it wasn't no comfort -- I'd got to go up in the attic and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth, or I'd a died, Tom. The widder wouldn't let me smoke; she wouldn't let me yell, she wouldn't let me gape, nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks -- [Then with a spasm of special irritation and injury] --And dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! I never see such a woman! I HAD to shove, Tom -- I just had to. And besides, that school's going to open, and I'd a had to go to it -- well, I wouldn't stand THAT, Tom. Lookyhere, Tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be. It's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the time. Now these clothes suits me, and this bar'l suits me, and I ain't ever going to shake 'em any more. Tom, I wouldn't ever got into all this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben for that money; now you just take my sheer of it along with your'n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes -- not many times, becuz I don't give a dern for a thing 'thout it's tollable hard to git. No, Tom, I won't be rich, and I won't live in them cussed smothery houses. I like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and I'll stick to 'em, too. Blame it all! just as we'd got guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!   Credits: Reprinted from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Mark Twain. Hartford: American Publishing Company, 1876.    

5 minutes