第41章

Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk -- that is what they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that ever I've come across yet.Buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women.They all smoked and talked, and I eat and talked.The young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs.They all asked me questions, and I told them how pap and me and all the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died I took what there was left, because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was how I come to be here.So they said I could have a home there as long as I wanted it.Then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was.So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and when Buck waked up I says:

"Can you spell, Buck?"

"Yes," he says.

"I bet you can't spell my name," says I.

"I bet you what you dare I can," says he.

"All right," says I, "go ahead."

"G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n -- there now," he says.

"Well," says I, "you done it, but I didn't think you could.It ain't no slouch of a name to spell -- right off without studying."I set it down, private, because somebody might want ME to spell it next, and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I was used to it.

It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too.I hadn't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much style.It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town.There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them.There was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-brown, same as they do in town.They had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a sawlog.There was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it.It was beautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out.They wouldn't took any money for her.

Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy.By one of the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't open their mouths nor look different nor interested.They squeaked through underneath.There was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind those things.On the table in the middle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that bad apples and oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower and prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath.

This table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around.It come all the way from Philadelphia, they said.There was some books, too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table.One was a big family Bible full of pictures.One was Pilgrim's Progress, about a man that left his family, it didn't say why.I read considerable in it now and then.The statements was interesting, but tough.Another was Friendship's Offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but I didn't read the poetry.Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and another was Dr.Gunn's Family Medicine, which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead.There was a hymn book, and a lot of other books.And there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too -- not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old basket.