SATURDAY morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face and a spring in every step. The locust-trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail, and singing ~Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from the town pump had always been hateful work in Tom's eyes, before, but now it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company at the pump. White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water under an hour -- and even then somebody generally had to go after him. Tom said:

"Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some."

Jim shook his head and said:

"Can't, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an' git dis water an' not stop foolin' roun' wid anybody. She say she spec' Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to my own business -- she 'lowed she'd 'tend to de whitewashin'."

"Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket -- I won't be gone only a a minute. SHE won't ever know."

"Oh, I dasn't, Mars Tom. Ole missis she'd take an' tar de head off'n me. 'Deed she would."

"She! She never licks anybody -- whacks 'em over the head with her thimble -- and who cares for that, I'd like to know. She talks awful, but talk don't hurt -- anyways it don't if she don't cry. Jim, I'll give you a marvel. I'll give you a white alley!"

Jim began to waver.

"White alley, Jim! And it's a bully taw."

"My! Dat's a mighty gay marvel, I tell you! But Mars Tom I's powerful 'fraid ole missis --"

"And besides, if you will I'll show you my sore toe."

Jim was only human -- this attraction was too much for him. He put down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound. In another moment he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigor, and Aunt Polly was retiring from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye. But Tom's energy did not last. He began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work -- the very thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out his worldly wealth and examined it -- bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of WORK, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom. So he returned his straitened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him! Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration.

He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers hove in sight presently -- the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading. Ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump -- proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. He was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to star-board and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance -- for he was personating the Big missouri, and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was boat and captain and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:

"Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!" The headway ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.

"Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!" His arms straightened and stiffened down his sides.

"Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow! Chow!" His right hand, meantime, describing stately circles -- for it was representing a forty-foot wheel.

"Let her go back on the labboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!" The left hand began to describe circles.

"Stop the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling! Stop the labboard! Come ahead on the stabboard! Stop her! Let your outside turn over slow! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that head-line! lively now! Come -- out with your spring-line -- what're you about there! Take a turn round that stump with the bight of it! Stand by that stage, now -- let her go! Done with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!"

"Sh't! s'h't! sh't!" (trying the gauge-cocks).

Tom went on whitewashing -- paid no attention to the steamboat. Ben stared a moment and then said: "Hi-Yi! you're up a stump, ain't you!"

No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said:

"Hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?"

Tom wheeled suddenly and said:

"Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing."

"Say -- I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you could? But of course you'd druther work -- wouldn't you? Course you would!"

Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:

"What do you call work?"

"Why, ain't that work?"

Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:

"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits Tom Sawyer."

"Oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?"

The brush continued to move.

"Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?"

That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth -- stepped back to note the effect -- added a touch here and there -- criticised the effect again -- Ben watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said:

"Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little."

Tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:

"No -- no -- I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence -- right here on the street, you know -- but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and she wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done."

"No -- is that so? Oh come, now -- lemme just try. Only just a little -- I'd let you, if you was me, Tom."

"Ben, I'd like to, honest injun; but Aunt Polly -- well, Jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him; Sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it --"

"Oh, shucks, I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say -- I'll give you the core of my apple."

"Well, here -- No, Ben, now don't. I'm afeard --"

"I'll give you all of it!"

Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. And while the late steamer Big Missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with -- and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass doorknob, a dog-collar -- but no dog -- the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.

He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while -- plenty of company -- and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it -- namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign.

The boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place in his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters to report

星期六的早晨到了，夏天的世界，阳光明媚，空气新鲜，充满了生机。每个人的心中都
荡漾着一首歌，有些年轻人情不自禁地唱出了这首歌。每个人脸上都洋溢着欢乐，每个人的
脚步都是那么轻盈。洋槐树正开着花，空气里弥漫着芬芳的花香。村庄外面高高的卡第夫山
上覆盖着绿色的植被，这山离村子不远不近，就像一块“乐土”，宁静安详，充满梦幻，令
人向往。
    汤姆出现在人行道上，一只手拎着一桶灰浆，另一只手拿着一把长柄刷子。他环顾栅
栏，所有的快乐，立刻烟消云散，心中充满了惆怅。栅栏可是三十码长，九英尺高啊。生活
对他来说太乏味空洞了，活着仅是一种负担。他叹了一口气，用刷子蘸上灰浆，沿着最顶上
一层木板刷起来。接着又刷了一下，二下。看看刚刷过的不起眼的那块，再和那远不着边际
的栅栏相比，汤姆灰心丧气地在一块木箱子上坐下来。这时，吉姆手里提着一个锡皮桶，嘴
中唱着“布法罗的女娃们”蹦蹦跳跳地从大门口跑出来。在汤姆眼中，到镇上从抽水机里拎
水，一向是件令人厌烦的差事，现在他可不这样看了。他记得在那里有很多伴儿。有白人孩
子，黑人孩子，还有混血孩子，男男女女都在那排队等着提水。大家在那儿休息，交换各自
玩的东西，吵吵闹闹，争斗嬉戏。而且他还记得尽管他们家离拎水处只有一百五十码左右，
可是吉姆从没有在一个小时里拎回一桶水来——有时甚至还得别人去催才行。汤姆说：
    “喂，吉姆，如果你来刷点墙，我就去提水。”
    吉姆摇摇头，说：
    “不行，汤姆少爷。老太太，她叫我去提水，不准在路上停下来和人家玩。她说她猜到
汤姆少爷你会让我刷墙，所以她吩咐我只管干自己的活，莫管他人闲事——她说她要亲自来
看看你刷墙。”
    “咳，吉姆，你别管她对你说的那一套。她总是这样说的。
    把水桶给我——我很快就回来。她不会知道的。”
    “哦，不，我可不敢，汤姆少爷。老太太她会把我的头给拧下来的，她真的会的！”
    “她吗？她从来没揍过任何人——她不过是用顶针在头上敲敲罢了——谁还在乎这个，
我倒是想问问你。她不过是嘴上说得凶，可是说说又伤害不了你——只要她不大叫大嚷就没
事。吉姆，我给你一个好玩意，给你一个白石头子儿！”
    吉姆开始动摇了。
    “白石头子，吉姆！这可是真正好玩的石头子啊。”
    “嘿，老实说，那是个挺不错的好玩意。可是汤姆少爷，我害怕老太太……”
    “还有，吉姆，只要你答应了的话，我还给你看我那只脚趾头，那只肿痛的脚趾头。”
    吉姆到底是个凡人，不是神仙——这诱惑对他太大了。他放下水桶，接过白石头子儿，
还饶有兴趣地弯着腰看汤姆解开缠在脚上的布带子，看那只肿痛的脚趾。可是，一会儿之
后，吉姆的屁股直痛，拎着水桶飞快地沿着街道跑掉了；汤姆继续用劲地刷墙，因为波莉姨
妈此时从田地干活回来了。她手里提着一只拖鞋，眼里流露出满意的神色。
    不过，汤姆这股劲没持续多久。他开始想起原先为这个休息日所作的一些玩耍的安排，
心里越想越不是滋味。再过一会儿，那些自由自在的孩子们就会蹦跳着跑过来，做各种各样
开心好玩的游戏，他们看到他不得不刷墙干活，会大肆嘲笑挖苦他的——一想到这，汤姆心
里就像火烧似的难受。他拿出他全部的家当宝贝，仔细地看了一阵——有残缺不全的玩具、
一些石头子、还有一些没有什么用处的东西。这些玩意足够用来换取别的孩子为自己干活，
不过，要想换来半个小时的绝对自由，也许还差得远呢。于是他又把这几件可怜的宝贝玩意
装进口袋，打消了用这些来收买那些男孩子的念头。正在这灰心绝望的时刻，他忽然灵机一
动，计上心来。这主意实在是聪明绝伦，妙不可言。
    他拿起刷子，一声不响地干了起来。不一会儿，本·罗杰斯出现了——在所有的孩子们
当中，正是这个男孩叫汤姆最害怕。汤姆最怕他的讥讽。本走路好像是做三级跳——这证明
他此时的心情轻松愉快，而且还打算干点痛快高兴的事。他正在吃苹果，不时地发出长长
的、好听的“呜——”的叫声，隔会儿还“叮当当、叮当当”地学铃声响，他这是在扮演一
只蒸汽轮船。他越来越近，于是他减慢速度，走到街中心，身体倾向右舷，吃力、做作地转
了船头使船逆风停下——他在扮演“大密苏里号”，好像已吃水九英尺深。他既当船，又当
船长还要当轮机铃。因此他就想象着自己站在轮船的顶层甲板上发着命令，同时还执行着这
些命令。
    “停船，伙计！叮——啊铃！”船几乎停稳了，然后他又慢慢地向人行道靠过来。
    “调转船头！叮——啊铃——铃！”他两臂伸直，用力往两边垂着。
    “右舷后退，叮——啊铃——铃！嚓呜——嚓——嚓呜！嚓呜！”
    他一边喊着，一边用手比划着画个大圈——这代表着一个四十英尺大转轮。
    “左舷后退！叮——啊铃——铃！嚓呜——嚓——嚓呜——嚓呜！”左手开始画圈。
    “右舷停！叮——啊铃——铃！左舷停！右舷前进！停！外面慢慢转过来！叮——啊铃
——铃！嚓——呜——呜！把船头的绳索拿过来！快点！喂——再把船边的绳索递过来——
你在发什么呆！把绳头靠船桩绕住好，就这么拉紧——放手吧！发动机停住，伙计！叮——
啊铃——铃！希特——希特——希特！”（摹仿着汽门排气的声音。）
    汤姆继续刷栅栏，——不去理睬那只蒸汽轮船，本瞪着眼睛看了一会儿，说：
    “哎呀，你日子好过了，是不是？”
    汤姆没有回答。只是用艺术家的眼光审视他最后刷的那一块，接着轻轻地刷了一下。又
像刚才那样打量着栅栏。本走过来站在他身旁。看见那苹果，汤姆馋得直流口水，可是他还
是继续刷他的墙。本说：
    “嘿，老伙计，你还得干活呀，咦？”
    汤姆猛然地转过身来说道：“咳！是你呀，本。我还没注意到你呢。”
    “哈，告诉你吧，我可是要去游泳了。难道你不想去吗？当然啦，你宁愿在这干活，对
不对？当然你情愿！”
    汤姆打量了一下那男孩，说：
    “你说什么？这叫干活？”
    “这还不叫干活，叫干什么？”
    汤姆重新又开始刷墙，漫不经心地说：“这也许是干活，也许不是。我只知道这对汤
姆·索亚来说倒是很得劲。”
    “哦，得了吧！难道你的意思是说你喜欢干这事？”
    刷子还在不停地刷着。
    “喜欢干？哎，我真搞不懂为什么我要不喜欢干，哪个男孩子能天天有机会刷墙？”
    这倒是件新鲜事。于是，本停止了啃苹果。汤姆灵巧地用刷子来回刷着——不时地停下
来退后几步看看效果——在这补一刷，在那补一刷——然后再打量一下效果——本仔细地观
看着汤姆的一举一动，越看越有兴趣，越看越被吸引住了。后来他说：
    “喂，汤姆，让我来刷点儿看看。”
    汤姆想了一下，正打算答应他；可是他立刻又改变了主意：
    “不——不行，本——我想这恐怕不行。要知道，波莉姨妈对这面墙是很讲究的——这
可是当街的一面呀——不过要是后面的，你刷刷倒也无妨，姨妈也不会在乎的。是呀，她对
这道墙是非常讲究的。刷这墙一定得非常精心。我想在一千，也许在两千个孩子里，也找不
出一个能按波莉姨妈的要求刷好这道墙的。”“哦，是吗？哎，就让我试一试吧。我只刷一
点儿——汤姆，如果我是你的话，我会让你试试的。”
    “本，我倒是愿意，说真的。可是，波莉姨妈——唉，吉姆想刷，可她不叫他刷，希德
也想干，她也不让希德干。现在，你知道我该有多么为难？要是你来摆弄这墙，万一出了什
么毛病……”
    “啊，没事，我会小心仔细的。还是让我来试试吧。嘿——我把苹果核给你。”
    “唉，那就……不行，本，算了吧。我就怕……。”
    “我把这苹果全给你！”
    汤姆把刷子让给本，脸上显示出不情愿，可心里却美滋滋的。
    当刚才那只“大密苏里号”在阳光下干活，累得大汗淋漓的时候，这位离了职的艺术家
却在附近的阴凉下，坐在一只木桶上，跷着二郎腿，一边大口大口地吃着苹果，一边暗暗盘
算如何再宰更多的傻瓜。这样的小傻瓜会有许多。每过一会儿，就有些男孩子从这经过；起
先他们都想来开开玩笑，可是结果都被留下来刷墙。在本累得精疲力尽时，汤姆早已经和比
利·费施做好了交易。比利用一个修得很好的风筝换来接替本的机会。等到比利也玩得差不
多的时候，詹尼·米勒用一只死老鼠和拴着它的小绳子购买了这个特权——一个又一个的傻
小子受骗上了当，接连几个钟头都没有间断。下午快过了一半的时候，汤姆早上还是个贫困
潦倒的穷小子，现在一下子就变成了腰包鼓鼓的阔佬了。除了以上提到的那些玩意以外，还
有十二颗石头子；一只破口琴；一块可以透视的蓝玻璃片；一门线轴做的大炮；一把什么锁
也不开的钥匙；一截粉笔；一个大酒瓶塞子；一个锡皮做的小兵；一对蝌蚪；六个鞭炮；一
只独眼小猫；一个门上的铜把手；一根拴狗的颈圈——却没有狗——一个刀把；四片桔子
皮；还有一个破旧的窗框。
    他一直过得舒舒服服，悠闲自在——同伴很多——而且墙整整被刷了三遍。要不是他的
灰浆用光了的话，他会让村里的每个孩子都掏空腰包破产的。
    汤姆自言自语道，这世界原来并不是那么空洞乏味啊。他已经不知不觉地发现了人类行
为的一大法则——那就是为了让一个大人或一个小孩渴望干什么事，只需设法将这事变得难
以到手就行了。如果他是位伟大而明智的哲学家，就像这本书的作者，他就会懂得所谓“工
作”就是一个人被迫要干的事情，至于“玩”就是一个人没有义务要干的事。这个道理使他
明白了为什么做假花和蹬车轮就算是工作，而玩十柱戏和爬勃朗峰就算是娱乐。英国有钱的
绅士在夏季每天驾着四轮马拉客车沿着同样的路线走上二三十里，他们为这种特权竟花了很
多钱。可是如果因此付钱给他们的话，那就把这桩事情变成了工作，他们就会撒手不干了。
    汤姆思考了一会那天发生在他身边的实质性变化，然后就到司令部报告去了