Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. The widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. She said that smoking was filthy and disgusting, and that I had to stop. 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. We got six thousand dollars each, all in gold.
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. She was skinny old maid who wore glasses and was pretty nice, I guess. For example, whenever the widow rang the supper bell, you had to drop what you were doing and come to the table. We got six thousand dollars apiece—all gold. I got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. 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.
There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. Then all the fuss over rules started up again. 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. It was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. Klikker du videre på siden, aksepterer du at det utplasseres informasjonskapsler til disse formålene.
And she even takes snuff. That money made us rich. One day she sat me down and tried to teach me how to read out of a spelling book. She made me wear those new clothes, which made me sweat and feel cooped up all over again. Then for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety.
It earned each of us a dollar a day for every day of the year, which was more money than we knew what to do with. I put on my old ratty clothes and hung out in my favorite sugar barrel. That is just the way with some people. Cookies på Jobbsafari Vi bruker informasjonskapsler til statistikk og til å gjøre hjemmesiden mer brukervennlig. Les mer om vår bruk av informasjonskapsler, herunder hvordan du velger bort bruken av informasjonskapsler. Of course, she thought that was okay because it was something she liked to do.
Well, Judge Thatcher took that money and invested it. It looked awesome when it was all piled up. But then Tom Sawyer found me. 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. That book was made by Mr. Du kan alltid trekke tilbake samtykke ved å. After supper she got out her Bible and taught me all about Moses and the.
Another boring hour passed, and I started fidgeting. Det utplasseres informasjonskapsler fra Jobbsafari og fra samarbeidspartnerne våre. Now at the end of that book, Tom and I had found the money that the robbers hid in the cave. She said it was wicked to say what I had said, and that she would never say such a thing because she wanted to live a good life and go to Heaven. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. 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. Well, then, the old thing commenced again.
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. All I wanted was a change of scenery—to go anywhere else. She worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. The widow cried when I came back. But then she picks on me for trying to do something that would have done me some good. Pretty soon, I wanted a smoke, and I asked the widow if that would be okay, but she said no. I was happy and free again.
And she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself. . He exaggerated some things, but most of it was true. Mark Twain wrote that book, and what he wrote was mostly true. . . .
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