IN about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head out, and says:

"Be done, boys! Who's there?"

I says:

"It's me."

"Who's me?"

"George Jackson, sir."

"What do you want?"

"I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to go along by, but the dogs won't let me."

"What are you prowling around here this time of night for -- hey?"

"I warn't prowling around, sir, I fell overboard off of the steamboat."

"Oh, you did, did you? Strike a light there, somebody. What did you say your name was?"

"George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy."

"Look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid -- nobody'll hurt you. But don't try to budge; stand right where you are. Rouse out Bob and Tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. George Jackson, is there anybody with you?"

"No, sir, nobody."

I heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light. The man sung out:

"Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old fool -- ain't you got any sense? Put it on the floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and Tom are ready, take your places."

"All ready."

"Now, George Jackson, do you know the Shepherdsons?"

"No, sir; I never heard of them."

"Well, that may be so, and it mayn't. Now, all ready. Step forward, George Jackson. And mind, don't you hurry -- come mighty slow. If there's anybody with you, let him keep back -- if he shows himself he'll be shot. Come along now. Come slow; push the door open yourself -- just enough to squeeze in, d' you hear?"

I didn't hurry; I couldn't if I'd a wanted to. I took one slow step at a time and there warn't a sound, only I thought I could hear my heart. The dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me. When I got to the three log doorsteps I heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. I put my hand on the door and pushed it a little and a little more till somebody said, "There, that's enough -- put your head in." I done it, but I judged they would take it off.

The candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: Three big men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two thirty or more -- all of them fine and handsome -- and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her two young women which I couldn't see right well. The old gentleman says:

"There; I reckon it's all right. Come in."

As soon as I was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows -- there warn't none on the side. They held the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, "Why, HE ain't a Shepherdson -- no, there ain't any Shepherdson about him." Then the old man said he hoped I wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by it -- it was only to make sure. So he didn't pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. He told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady says:

"Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don't you reckon it may be he's hungry?"

"True for you, Rachel -- I forgot."

So the old lady says:

"Betsy" (this was a nigger woman), you fly around and get him something to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake up Buck and tell him -- oh, here he is himself. Buck, take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of yours that's dry."

Buck looked about as old as me -- thirteen or fourteen or along there, though he was a little bigger than me. He hadn't on anything but a shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. He came in gaping and digging one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other one. He says:

"Ain't they no Shepherdsons around?"

They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.

"Well," he says, "if they'd a ben some, I reckon I'd a got one."

They all laughed, and Bob says:

"Why, Buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow in coming."

"Well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right I'm always kept down; I don't get no show."

"Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show enough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. Go 'long with you now, and do as your mother told you."

When we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his, and I put them on. While I was at it he asked me what my name was, but before I could tell him he started to tell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me where Moses was when the candle went out. I said I didn't know; I hadn't heard about it before, no way.

"Well, guess," he says.

"How'm I going to guess," says I, "when I never heard tell of it before?"

"But you can guess, can't you? It's just as easy."

"WHICH candle?" I says.

"Why, any candle," he says.

"I don't know where he was," says I; "where was he?"

"Why, he was in the DARK! That's where he was!"

"Well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?"

"Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? Say, how long are you going to stay here? You got to stay always. We can just have booming times -- they don't have no school now. Do you own a dog? I've got a dog -- and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in. Do you like to comb up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? You bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Confound these ole britches! I reckon I'd better put 'em on, but I'd ruther not, it's so warm. Are you all ready? All right. Come along, old hoss."

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.

They had pictures hung on the walls -- mainly Washingtons and Lafayettes, and battles, and Highland Marys, and one called "Signing the Declaration." There was some that they called crayons, which one of the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years old. They was different from any pictures I ever see before -- blacker, mostly, than is common. One was a woman in a slim black dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said "Shall I Never See Thee More Alas." Another one was a young lady with her hair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "I Shall Never Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There was one where a young lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it said "And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas." These was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever I was down a little they always give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost. But I reckoned that with her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard. She was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never got the chance. It was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching up towards the moon -- and the idea was to see which pair would look best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as I was saying, she died before she got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on it. Other times it was hid with a little curtain. The young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me.

This young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the Presbyterian Observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head. It was very good poetry. This is what she wrote about a boy by the name of Stephen Dowling Bots that fell down a well and was drownded:

ODE TO STEPHEN DOWLING BOTS, DEC'D

And did young Stephen sicken, And did young Stephen die? And did the sad hearts thicken, And did the mourners cry?

No; such was not the fate of Young Stephen Dowling Bots; Though sad hearts round him thickened, 'Twas not from sickness' shots.

No whooping-cough did rack his frame, Nor measles drear with spots; Not these impaired the sacred name Of Stephen Dowling Bots.

Despised love struck not with woe That head of curly knots, Nor stomach troubles laid him low, Young Stephen Dowling Bots.

O no. Then list with tearful eye, Whilst I his fate do tell. His soul did from this cold world fly By falling down a well.

They got him out and emptied him; Alas it was too late; His spirit was gone for to sport aloft In the realms of the good and great.

If Emmeline Grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done by and by. Buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. She didn't ever have to stop to think. He said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. She warn't particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. Every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. She called them tributes. The neighbors said it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then the undertaker -- the undertaker never got in ahead of Emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was Whistler. She warn't ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long. Poor thing, many's the time I made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and I had soured on her a little. I liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her now she was gone; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but I couldn't seem to make it go somehow. They kept Emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. The old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her Bible there mostly.

Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. There was a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "The Last Link is Broken" and play "The Battle of Prague" on it. The walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside.

It was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofed and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. Nothing couldn't be better. And warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too!

大约过了半分钟，窗下有个什么人在说话。他并没有探出头来，只是说：
    “准备好，孩子们！外边是谁？”
    我说：
    “是我。”
    “‘我’是谁啊？”
    “乔治·杰克逊，先生。”
    “你要什么？”
    “我什么都不要，先生。我只要走过去，可是狗不让我过去。”
    “夜这么深，你东荡西荡，干什么来着？”
    “我不在东荡西荡，先生，我是在轮船上失足落了水。”
    “哦，是么，真是么？你们哪一个在那边点一个火。你刚才说你的姓名是什么来着？”
    “乔治·杰克逊，先生。我还是个孩子。”
    “听我说，你要是说的真话，那你就不用害怕——没有人会伤害你。不过你不要动，就
站在你那个地方。你们哪一个去把鲍勃和汤姆给叫起身来，再把枪带来。乔治·杰克逊，还
有什么人跟你在一起？”
    “没有，先生，没有什么人。”
    这时我听见屋子里人们在走动，还看到了一处烛光。那个人喊道：
    “快把那个蜡烛拿开，贝茵，你这老傻瓜——你还有点儿头脑么？把它放在前门后边的
地板上。鲍勃，要是你跟汤姆准备好了，就站到你们的位置上去。”
    “准备好了。”
    “嗯，乔治·杰克逊，你知道歇佛逊家的人么？”
    “不知道，先生——我从没有听说过他们啊。”
    “嗯，也许是这样，也许又并非是这样。好，都准备好。乔治·杰克逊，往前走一步。
要注意啦——千万别急——要慢慢地慢慢地走过来。要是有什么人跟你在一起，叫他靠后—
—要是他一露面，就得挨枪。好，走过来。慢慢地走，把门给推开，你自己开——只开那么
一丝丝，够挤进来就行了，听见了么？”
    我没有着急，着急也没有用。我慢慢地一次走一步。什么声音都没有，只听得见自己心
砰砰地跳。狗静得跟人一个样，不过紧钉在我的后面。等到我走到了由三根圆木搭的台阶
时，我听到了开锁、拉开门闩、去插销的声音。我把一只手按住了大门，轻轻推了一点点
儿，再一点点儿，到后来有人在说话了，“好，够了，把你的脑袋伸进来。”我照着做了，
可是我还担心人家会把它“摘”下来呢。
    蜡烛放在地板上，他们的人全都在场，他们望着我，我望着他们，这样有十几秒钟。三
个大汉枪对着我瞄准着，吓得我畏畏缩缩，知道吧。年纪最长的一个，头发灰白，六十岁左
右。另外两个三十多岁——全都长得一表人才——还有一位非常慈祥的头发染霜的老太太，
背后还有两位年轻妇女，我看不大清楚。老绅士说：
    “好吧——我看没有什么，进来吧。”
    我迈进屋，老绅士就锁了大门，把门闩上，把插销插好。他招呼那些带着枪的年轻人往
里边去，他们就全聚齐在地板上铺着百衲地毯的一间大厅里。他们都挤在一个拐角上，那
里，从前面窗口朝里打枪是打不到的——两旁是没有窗的。他们举着蜡烛，对我着实打量了
一番，异口同声地说，“哈，他不是歇佛逊家的人啊——不是的，他身上一点儿也没有歇佛
逊家人的味道。”接下来，老人说，要搜一搜身，看有没有武器，希望不用介意，他并没有
什么恶意——不过是要弄一弄清楚罢了。所以他没有搜我的口袋，只是用手在外面摸了一
摸，摸后说没有什么问题。他要我别拘束，一切象在自己家里一样，把自己的身世全都讲一
讲。可是那位老太太说：
    “嗳，你呀，苏尔，这个可怜的孩子全身湿透啦。再说，你看他会不会已经饿慌了吧？”
    “你说得对，拉结——我忘了。”
    老太太就说：
    “贝茜（这是女黑奴的名字），你赶快给他弄点吃的，这个可怜的孩子。你们哪位姑娘
去把勃克给叫醒了，告诉他说，——哦，他来了。勃克，把这个小客人带去，把他身上的湿
衣服脱下来，把你自己的干衣服给他穿上。”
    勃克看样子跟我差不多大，——十四五岁光景①，但是比我长得块头大一点儿。他身上
只披着一件衬衫，头发蓬蓬松松的。他打着呵欠走进来，一个拳头揉着眼睛，另一只手里拖
着一支枪。他说：
    “没有歇佛逊家的人来吧？”
    人家说没有。说是一场虚惊。
    “好啊，”他说，“要是有的话，我看我准能打中一个。”
    大家都齐声笑了起来。鲍勃说：
    “哈，勃克，象你这样慢慢吞吞出来，人家说不定会早把我们的头皮都剥下来了②。”    ①诺顿版注：马克·吐温在一个笔记本上明确地说过，哈克是一个“十四岁的孩子。”参见华尔特·勃莱尔《马克·吐温和哈克·芬》。②美国的土著印第安人常把战败的敌人的头皮剥下，作为战利品。

“啊，根本没有人来叫我啊，这可不行。我老是被落下，捞不到表现一下的机会。”“别担心，勃克，我的孩子，”老人说，“你迟早总会有机会表现表现的，急什么。现在你去吧，照妈对你说的去做。”我们上楼进了他的房间，他给了我一件粗布衬衫和一件短茄克，还有他的一条裤子。我穿上了身。我正换衣服的时候，他问我叫什么名字，可是我还没有来得及回答他，他就急着跟我说，他前两天在林子里捉到一只蓝喜鹊和一只小兔子。他还问我，蜡烛熄的时候，摩西在哪里①？我说，我不知道，过去也从没有听过这件事。

①这里写孩子玩的猜谜游戏。《旧约·出埃及》写摩西出生三个月，母亲把他放在蒲草编的箱子里扔在河岸边，“河岸”与“黑暗”，英语发音接近，故这里系通过双关语玩猜谜的游戏。

“那你猜一猜，”他说。“我怎么猜得着？”我说，“既然过去从没有听说过。”“不过你能猜啊，不是么？容易猜啊。”“哪一支蜡烛啊？”我说。“怎么啦，随便哪一支啊。”他说。“我不知道他在哪里啊，”我说，“他在哪里呢？”“他在黑暗中呢！那就是他所在的地方。”“既然你知道他在哪里，你又问我干什么？”“啊，真是的，这是一个谜语嘛，你不知道么？听我说，你在这里准备耽多久？你非得长久耽下去不可。我们会过得快快活活的——现今也没有什么学校了。你有一条狗么？我有一条狗——这条狗能冲进河里，把你扔进河里的小木片给叼回来。在星期天，你喜欢把头发梳得光光的，以及干诸如此类的傻玩意儿么？对你说，我是不乐意的，可是我妈逼我这么干。这些旧裤子可真讨厌死人，我看最好还是穿上了吧，尽管我不喜欢。怪热的。你都搞好了么？好——来吧，老伙计。”冷的玉米饼，冷的腌牛肉，黄油，和酪乳——他们那里给我吃的就是这一些。我吃过的东西，从来没有比这一些更加好吃的了。勃克，他妈，其他所有的人，全都抽玉米轴烟斗，除了那个女黑奴，她走开了，还有那两位年轻妇女。他们全都一边抽烟，一边说话。我呢，是一边吃，一边谈话。那两个年轻妇女都披着棉斗篷，头发披在背后。他们都问我一些问题。我告诉他们说，我爸爸、我和一家人是怎样在阿肯色州南头一个小农庄上的；我姐姐玛丽·安怎样出走，结了婚，从此杳无音讯；比尔怎样出去四处寻找他们，连自己也从此没有下落；汤姆和摩尔怎样也死了；除了我和我爸爸，我们这一家就没有留下别的人了；爸爸磨难重重，也穷得精光。所以等他一死，既然庄子不属于我们所有，我就把剩下的一点点东西带着走，打了统舱往上游去，可又掉到了水里，这才投奔到了这里①。他们就说，我可以把这里当做自己的家，爱住多久就住多久。这时天快大亮，大家一个个去睡觉了，我和勃克一床睡，早晨一觉醒来，糟了，我把我自己的名字给忘了。我躺着想了一个钟头。勃克醒来时，我说：

①诺顿版注：哈克编造的身世，往往反映出他个人的不幸经历，饱和着突然从天而降的坎坷，灾难与死亡这等等方面的遭遇。另一方面，喜剧讽刺小品，传统上也往往有这类奇闻轶事。

“你会拼字母么，勃克？”“会，”他说。“我估摸着你才不会拼我名字的字母呢，”我说。“我敢说，你会的，我都会，”他说。“好吧，”我说，“那你拼拼看。”“考——治——杰——克——宋——①怎么样，”他说。“不错，”我说，“拼出来了，我原本以为你不行呢。这名字不疙里疙瘩，——不用想就能拼得出来。”我私下里把名字记了下来，因为下一回可能会有人要我拼出来，我得记熟了，一张嘴就能咔嗒咔嗒说出来，仿佛说惯了似的。这是挺可爱的一家人，屋子也是挺可爱的屋子。以前在乡下从没见到这么可爱的，这么有气派的。大门上并没有安装铁门闩，也不装带鹿皮绳子的门闩，用的是可以转动的铜把手②，镇上的人家也都是这样的。客厅里没有床，也没有铺过床的模样。可是在一些镇子上，大厅里铺着床的可有的是哩。有一个大壁炉，底下铺了砖的，这些砖上面可以浇水，用另一块砖在上面磨，就擦得于干净净，红红的。他们间或抹上一种叫做西班牙赫石的红色颜料，用这个来洗擦，和镇子上的人家一个样子。壁炉的铜架大得可以放一根待锯的圆木。炉台中间放着一只钟，钟的玻璃罩下半部画着一个镇子，玻璃罩的中间部位，画着一个圆轮，那就算是太阳了。在这个后边，你看得见钟摆在摆动。听到钟的滴嗒声，那是挺美的。有时会有走乡串镇的工匠来擦洗一遍，整得象模象样的，它就能一口气敲响一百五十下，这才累得停下来。这样的一台钟，不管你愿出多少价，他们也不肯卖。

①这里是勃克拼错了，应为GeorgeJackson，乔治·杰克逊。②指弹簧锁。

钟的两旁各立着一只有点儿怪模怪样的大鹦鹉，是用白垩①般的什么东西塑成的，颜色涂得红红绿绿的。在一只鹦鹉的旁边，有一只瓷猫；另一只鹦鹉的旁边，有一只瓷狗；在这些东西的身上一按，就会哇哇地叫起来，只是嘴并没有张开，也不变样，也没有什么表情，是从肚子里发出声的。在这一系列东西的后边，正张开着几把由野火鸡翅膀做成的大扇子。屋子中间有一只惹人喜爱的瓷蓝子，里边装着一堆堆苹果、橘子、桃子、樱桃，颜色比真的还要来得更红或者更珍贵，也更可爱。这些当然不是真的，从破损处露出里面的白垩或是别的什么东西，就可以看得很分明。

①指石膏。

这张桌子铺着一张美丽的漆布，上面画着红蓝两色展翅翱翔的老鹰，四周围着花。人家说，这是从老远的费城运来的。还有一些书，堆得整整齐齐，放在桌子的四角上。有一本是大开本的家用《圣经》，附有很多的图画。一本叫做《天路历程》，是讲一个离家出走的人的，至于为什么原因离家，上面没有说。我有时拿来读读，已经读了不少。书上的句子难懂，但是还算有趣。另一本叫做《友谊的献礼》，①尽是美丽的文字和诗歌，不过诗歌我没有读。还有一本是亨利·克雷的演讲集②。另一本是昆恩博士的《家庭医药大全》，是讲一个人生了病或死了该怎么办的事的。还有一本《赞美诗集》以及其它别的一些书。屋子里有几张柳条编底的椅子，还挺挺的，并没有象旧篮子那样中间陷下去或者开裂。

①始刊于１８４３年，乃一年一度的感伤性诗文集。②亨利·克雷（１７７７—１８５２），美国共和党创始人之一。

墙上挂得有画——大多有关华盛顿、拉法耶特②和一些战役的，还有“高原上的玛丽”③，有一幅标明为“独立宣言签字式”。有几张他们所说的炭画，是一位已故的女儿亲手画的。她死的时候才只十五岁。她这些画跟我过去见过的不一样，大多比一般的要黑一些。其中一张画的是一个妇女，身穿瘦长的黑衣裳，胳肢戴一顶又大又黑、象煤铲似的遮阳帽，帽子上挂下来一张黑面纱。又白又细的腕子上绕着黑丝带。一双黑色的小巧的便鞋，活象两把凿子。她正站在一棵垂柳下边，用右肘斜靠在一块墓碑上，作沉思状，另一只手在另一侧往下垂着，拿着一条白手帕和一个网线袋。画的下边写着“谁料想，竟是一朝永诀。”另一幅画，画的是一位年轻姑娘，头发从四边拢到头顶上，在一把梳子前挽了一个结，象椅子靠背似的。她正用手帕捂着脸哭泣。她左手托着一只死鸟，两脚朝天仰卧着。这幅画下面写着“婉转鸣啼，竟成绝唱。”在另一幅画上，一位年轻的姑娘正凭窗仰望着月亮，眼泪沿着腮帮往下淌，一手拿着一封已经打开的信，信封的一头还有黑色的火漆。她用力把带链子、装照片的鸡心盒子贴在嘴上。画下面写着：“难道就从此长逝了么？唉，长逝了啊，多么伤心！”据我看，这些画都画得很好，不过，我仿佛不大喜欢这些画，因为每当我心里不痛快的时候，这些画总叫我更加心神不定。每个人都为她的死而惋惜。因为她已经打算好要画更多的画，人们从她已经作出的贡献，可知这损失有多大。不过我又估猜着，以她的脾性，在坟墓里也许还开心些。人家说，她病倒的时候正在用力于她那幅最伟大的画。她每天每晚祈祷的，便是能恩准她把这画画成功，可惜的是，没有能如愿以偿。画上是一位年轻的姑娘，身穿一件白色长袍，站在一处桥头栏杆上，已经准备好，要纵身一跃。她秀发披肩，仰望明月，泪流满面。她双臂抱在胸前，另有双臂朝前张开，又另有双臂伸向明月——原意是想要看一看，哪两个双臂画得更好些，定了以后，便把其余的给抹掉。不幸的是，正如我所说的，在她打定主意以前，突然逝世。家人如今把这幅画挂在她卧室的床头上。每到她的生日，他们在上面放了花。平时是用一块小小的幔帐给遮了起来。画上的年轻姑娘，脸又美又甜，只是胳膊太多了，我总觉得看起来有点儿象蜘蛛似的。

②拉法耶特（１７５７—１８３４），法国将军和政治家，美国独立战争时，率军援助美军。③指苏格兰大诗人彭斯著名的情人玛丽·坎贝尔不少感伤性诗画中的主人公。

这位年轻姑娘生前有一本剪贴簿，把《长老会观察报》上的讣告，伤亡事故和某些人默默地忍受煎熬的事迹保留下来，还诉说自己的胸怀，写下了诗篇。诗写得好。有一首诗是为一个名叫斯蒂芬·道林的男孩不幸坠井而死写的：悼斯蒂芬·道林·博茨君①莫非年轻的斯蒂芬病了？莫非年轻的斯蒂芬死了？莫非悲伤的人啊，正越加哀痛？莫非吊唁的人啊，在痛哭失声？不，年轻的斯蒂芬·道林·博茨君，他遭到了的并非是这样的命运，周围的人固然哀伤得愈来愈深，他可并非因为病痛而丧身。并非百日咳折磨了他的身子，并非可怕的麻疹害得他斑斑点点布满身，并非是因为什么病痛啊，这才夺去了斯蒂芬·道林·博茨君的令名。并非单相思啊，折磨了这长着一头鬈发的年轻人，并非胃部的什么病痛啊，害得斯蒂芬·道林·博茨一命归阴。啊，都不是的，你便流着热泪倾诉。当你听着我把他的命运细诉，他的灵魂已从这冷酷的世界逝去，只因他不幸坠落了井中。给捞起了，也挤出了肚子里的水，可是痛哭吧，都只为迟了一步，他的英灵已经飞逝远方，在那至善至伟的圣境。

①诺顿版注：马克·吐温戏拟当时流行的哀伤诗体，他对这一类诗体很喜爱。

如果说哀美琳·格伦基福特能在不满十四足岁时便能写?她要是不死，会写出怎么样的好诗，那就是可想而知的了。勃克说，她能出口成诗，不用费劲。她不需停下来想啊想的。他说，她随便一抹就是一行。这时，如果她找不到能为下一句押韵的，她便把那一句抹掉，重新开头。她题目不限，不论你挑了什么题目，要她写，她就能写。只要是写悲哀的便行。每当一个男人死了，或是一个女人死了，或是一个孩子死了，尸体未寒，她便已把“挽诗”送来了。她把这些诗称做挽诗。邻居们都说，最先到场的是医生，然后是哀美琳，再后面是殡仪馆里的人——殡仪馆里的人从没有能赶在哀美琳前边的，除了一回，因为押死者惠斯勒这个名字的韵，多耽误了些功夫，这才来迟了。从这以后，她大不如前了。她从来没有怨天尤人，只是从此消瘦了下去，没有能活下去。可怜的人，我曾多少次下了决心，到她那生前的小房间去，找出她那本叫人伤心的剪贴簿来阅读啊。那是在她的那些画使我感到心里发闷，甚至对她有些情绪的时候。我喜欢他们全家人，死了的，活着的，决不让在我们之间有什么隔阂。可怜的哀美琳活着的时候曾为所有的死者写下诗篇，如今她走了，却没有什么人为了她写诗。这也许是件憾事吧。因此，我曾绞尽脑汁，要为她写一首挽诗，可是，不知道怎么搞的，诗总是写不成。哀美琳的这间房间，家里人总是整理得干干净净、清清爽爽，保持着她生前喜爱的那个样子。从没有人在这间房间里睡过。老太太亲自照料着这间房间，尽管她有的是女黑奴。她往往在这里做针线，阅读她的那本《圣经》。至于说到那间大厅，一扇扇窗上都挂着漂亮的窗帘。是白色的，上面画着画，象一些城堡，藤萝在城墙上往下垂；象走下河边饮水的牛群；等等。大厅里还有一架小小的旧钢琴。我估猜，钢琴的里面，准有不少的白铁锅吧。年轻的姑娘们唱着一曲“金链寸寸断”①，弹着一曲“布拉格战役”②，那是再悦耳也没有了。各间房间里的墙壁都是粉过的，大都地板上铺了地毯。这座房子在墙外一律粉刷得雪白。

①为失恋者的悲歌。②弗朗兹·科茨瓦拉的乐曲，马克·吐温于１８７８年首次听到，认为是不成腔的作品。

这是一座二合一的大屋子，两所当中有一块宽敞的空地，上面也有屋顶，下面也有地板，有时候在中午时分在那里摆开一张桌子，委实是个阴凉、舒适的去处，没有法子再好了。何况饭食既美味，又尽你吃饱哩！