by Mark Twain
1872
Life as I Find It
The man lives in Philadelphia, who, when young and poor, entered a bank, and says he, “Please, sir, don’t you want a boy?” And the stately personage said, “No, little boy, I don’t want a little boy.” The little boy, whose heart was too full for utterance, chewing a piece of licorice stick he had bought with a cent stolen from his good and pious aunt, with sobs plainly audible, and with great globules of water rolling down his cheeks, glided silently down the marble steps of the bank. Bending his noble form, the bank man dodged behind a door, for he thought the little boy was going to shy a stone at him. But the little boy picked up something and stuck it in his poor but ragged jacket. “Come here, little boy,” and the little boy did come here; and the bank man said, “Lo, what pickest thou up?” And he answered and replied, “A pin.” And the bank man said, “How do you vote?—excuse me, do you go to Sunday-school?” and he said he did. Then the bank man took down a pen made of pure gold, and flowing with pure ink, and he wrote on a piece of paper, “St. Peter,” and he asked the little boy what it stood for, and he said “Salt Peter.” Then the bank man said it meant “Saint Peter.” The little boy said “Oh!”
Then the bank man took the little boy to his bosom, and the little boy said “Oh!” again, for he squeezed him. Then the bank man took the little boy into partnership, and gave him half the profits and all the capital, and he married the bank man’s daughter; and now all he has is all his and all his own, too.
STORY OF ANOTHER GOOD LITTLE BOY
My uncle told me this story, and I spent six weeks picking up pins in front of a bank. I expected the bank man would call me in and say, “Little boy, are you good?” and I was going to say, “Yes;” and when he asked me what “St. John” stood for, I was going to say “Salt John.” But I guess the bank man wasn’t anxious to have a partner, and I guess the daughter was a son, for one day says he to me, “Little boy, what’s that you’re picking up?” Says I, awful meekly, “Pins.” Says he, “Let’s see ‘em.” And he took ’em, and I took off my cap, all ready to go in the bank and become a partner, and marry his daughter. But I didn’t get any invitation. He said, “Those pins belong to the bank, and if I catch you hanging around here any more, I’ll set the dog on you!” Then I left, and the mean old cuss kept the pins. Such is life as I find it.
March 8, 1873
Sociable Jimmy
[I sent the following home in a private letter, some time ago, from a certain little village. It was in the days when I was a public lecturer. I did it because I wished to preserve the memory of the most artless, sociable, and exhaustless talker I ever came across. He did not tell me a single remarkable thing, or one that was worth remembering; and yet he was himself so interested in his small marvels, and they flowed so naturally and comfortably from his lips that his talk got the upper hand of my interest, too, and I listened as one who receives a revelation. I took down what he had to say, just as he said it—without altering a word or adding one.]
I had my supper in my room this evening, (as usual,) and they sent up a bright, simple, guileless little darkey boy to wait on me—ten years old—a wide-eyed, observant little chap. I said:
“What is your name, my boy?”
“Dey calls me Jimmy, Sah, but my right name’s James, Sah.”
I said, “Sit down there, Jimmy-I’ll not want you just yet.”
He sat down in a big arm-chair, hung both his legs over one of the arms, and looked comfortable and conversational. I said:
“Did you have a pleasant Christmas, Jimmy?”
“No, sah—not zackly. I was kind o’ sick den. But de res’ o’ de people dey had a good time—mos’ all uv ’em had a good time. Dey all got drunk. Dey all gits drunk heah, every Christmas, and carries on and has awful good times.”
“So you were sick, and lost it all. But unless you were very sick I should think that if you had asked the doctor he might have let you get—get—a little drunk—and—”
“Oh, no, Sah—I don’ never git drunk—it’s de white folks— dem’s de ones I means. Pa used to git drunk, but dat was befo’ I was big—but he’s done quit. He don’ git drunk no mo’ now. Jis’ takes one nip in de mawnin‘, now, cuz his stomach riles up, he sleeps so soun’. Jis’ one nip—over to de s‘loon—every mawnin’. He’s powerful sickly—powerful—sometimes he can’t hardly git aroun’, he can’t. He goes to de doctor every week—over to Ragtown. An’ one time he tuck some stuff, you know, an’ it mighty near fetched him. Ain’t it dish-yer blue-vittles dat’s pison?—ain’t dat it?—truck what you pisons cats wid?”
“Yes blue vittles [vitriol] is a very convincing article with a cat.”
“Well, den, dat was it. De ole man, he tuck de bottle and shuck it, and shuck it—he seed it was blue, and he didn’t know but it was blue mass, which he tuck mos’ always—blue mass pills—but den he ‘spected maybe dish-yer truck might be some other kin’ o’ blue stuff, and so he sot de bottle down, and drat if it wa’n’t blue vittles, sho’ nuff, when de doctor come. An’ de doctor he say if he’d a tuck dat blue vittles it would a highsted him, sho’. People can’t be too particlar ’bout sich things. Yes, indeedy!
“We ain’t got no cats heah, ‘bout dis hotel. Bill he don’t like ’em. He can’t stan’ a cat no way. Ef he was to ketch one he’d slam it outen de winder in a minute. Yes he would. Bill’s down on cats. So is de gals—waiter gals. When dey ketches a cat bummin’ aroun’ heah, dey jis’ scoops him—‘deed dey do. Dey snake him into de cistern—dey’s been cats drownded in dat water dat’s in yo’ pitcher. I seed a cat in dare yistiddy—all swelled up like a pudd’n. I bet you dem gals done dat. Ma says if dey was to drownd a cat for her, de fust one of ’em she ketched she’d jam her into de cistern ‘long wid de cat. Ma wouldn’t do dat, I don’t reckon, but ’deed an’ double, she said she would. I can’t kill a chicken—well, I kin wring its neck off, cuz dat don’t make ‘em no sufferin scacely; but I can’t take and chop dey heads off, like some people kin. It makes me feel so—so—well, I kin see dat chicken nights so’s I can’t sleep. Mr. Dunlap, he’s de richest man in dis town. Some people says dey’s fo’ thousan’ people in dis town—dis city. But Bill he says dey aint but ’bout thirty-three hund’d. And Bill he knows, cuz he’s lived heah all his life, do’ dey do say he won’t never set de river on fire. I don’t know how dey fin’ out—I wouldn’t like to count all dem people. Some folks says dis town would be considerable bigger if it wa’n’t on accounts of so much lan’ all roun’ it dat ain’t got no houses on it.” [This in perfect seriousness—dense simplicity—no idea of a joke.]
“I reckon you seed dat church as you come along up street. Dat’s an awful big church—awful high steeple. An’ it’s all solid stone, excep’ jes’ de top part—de steeple, I means—dat’s wood. It falls off when de win’ blows pooty hard, an’ one time it stuck in a cow’s back and busted de cow all to de mischief. It’s gwine to kill some body yit, dat steeple is. A man—big man, he was—bigger’n what Bill is—he tuck it up dare and fixed it again—an’ he didn’t look no bigger’n a boy, he was so high up. Dat steeple’s awful high. If you look out de winder you kin see it.” [I looked out, and was speechless with awe and admiration—which gratified Jimmy beyond expression. The wonderful steeple was some sixty or seventy feet high, and had a clock-face on it.] “You see dat arrer on top o’ dat steeple? Well, Sah, dat arrer is pooty nigh as big as dis do’ [door.] I seed it when dey pulled it outen de cow. It mus’ be awful to stan’ in dat steeple when de clock is strikin‘—dey say it is. Booms and jars so’s you think the world’s a comin’ to an end. I wouldn’t like to be up dare when de clock’s a strikin’. Dat clock ain’t jest a striker, like dese common clocks. It’s a bell—jist a reglar bell—and it’s a buster. You kin hear dat bell all over dis city. You ought to hear it boom, boom, boom, when dey’s a fire. My sakes! Dey ain’t got no bell like dat in Ragtown. I ben to Ragtown, an’ I ben mos’ halfway to Dockery [thirty miles.] De bell in Ragtown
’s got so ole now she don’t make no soun’, scasely.”
[Enter the landlord—a kindly man, verging toward fifty. My small friend, without changing position, says:]
“Bill, didn’t you say dat dey was only thirty-three hund’d people in dis city?”
“Yes, about thirty-three hundred is the population now.”
“Well, some folks says dey’s fo’ thousan’”
“Yes, I know they do; but it isn’t correct.”
“Bill, I don’t think dis gen’lman kin eat a whole prairie-chicken, but dey tole me to fetch it all up.”
“Yes, that’s all right—he ordered it.”
[Exit “Bill,” leaving me comfortable; for I had been perishing to know who “Bill” was.]
“Bill he’s de oldest. An’ he’s de bes‘, too. Dey’s fo’teen in dis fam‘ly—all boys an’ gals. Bill he suppo’ts ’em all—an’ he don’ never complain—he’s real good, Bill is. All dem brothers an’ sisters o’ his’n ain’t no ’count—all ceptin’ dat little teeny one dat fetched in dat milk. Dat’s Kit, Sah. She ain’t only nine year ole. But she’s de mos’ lady-like one in de whole bilin’. You don’t never see Kit a-rairin’ an’ a-chargin’ aroun’ an’ kickin’ up her heels like de res’ o’ de gals in dis fam’ly does gen‘ally. Dat was Nan dat you hearn a-cuttin’ dem shines on de pi-anah while ago. An’ sometimes ef she don’t rastle dat pi-anah when she gits started! Tab can’t hole a candle to her, but Tab kin sing like de very nation. She’s de only one in dis family dat kin sing. You don’t never hear a yelp outen Nan. Nan can’t sing for shucks. I’d jes’ lieves hear a tom-cat dat’s got scalded. Dey’s fo’-teen in dis fam‘ly ’sides de ole man an’ de ole ‘ooman—all brothers an’ sisters. But some of ’em don’t live heah—do’ Bill he suppo‘ts ’em—lends ‘em money, an’ pays dey debts an’ he’ps ’em along. I tell you Bill he’s real good. Dey all gits drunk—all ’cep Bill. De ole man he gits drunk, too, same as de res’ uv ‘em. Bob, he don’t git drunk much—jes’ sloshes roun’ de s’loons some, an’ takes a dram sometimes. Bob he’s next to Bill—‘bout forty year old. Dey’s all married—all de fam’ly’s married—cep’ some of de gals. Dare’s fo‘teen. It’s de biggest family in dese parts, dey say. Dare’s Bill—Bill Nubbles—Nubbles is de name; Bill an’ Griz, an’ Duke, an’ Bob, an’ Nan, an’ Tab, an’ Kit, an’ Sol, an’ Si, an’ Phil, an’ Puss, an’ Jake, an’ Sat—Sal she’s married an’ got chil’en as big as I is —an’ Hoss Nubbles, he’s de las’. Hoss is what dey mos’ always calls him, but he’s got another name dat I somehow disremember, it’s so kind o’ hard to git de hang of it.” [Then observing that I had been taking down this extraordinary list of nicknames for adults, he said:] “But in de mawnin’ I can ask Bill what’s Hoss’s other name, an’ den I’ll come up an’ tell you when I fetches yo’ breakfast. An’ may be I done got some o’ dem names mixed up, but Bill, he kin tell me. Dey’s fo’teen.”
By this time he was starting off with the waiter, (and a pecuniary consideration for his sociability,) and, as he went out, he paused a moment and said:
“Dad-fetch it, somehow dat other name don’t come. But, any-ways, you jes’ read dem names over an’ see if dey’s fo‘teen.” [I read the list from the fly-leaf of Longfellow’s New-England Tragedies. ] “Dat’s right, Sah. Dey’s all down, I’ll fetch up Hoss’s other name in de mawnin’, Sah. Don’t you be oneasy.”
[Exit, whistling “Listen to the Mockingbird.”]
November 29, 1874
A True Story, Repeated Word for Word as I Heard It
It was summer time, and twilight. We were sitting on the porch of the farm-house, on the summit of the hill, and “Aunt Rachel” was sitting respectfully below our level, on the steps,—for she was our servant, and colored. She was of mighty frame and stature; she was sixty years old, but her eye was undimmed and her strength unabated. She was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more trouble for her to laugh than it is for a bird to sing. She was under fire, now, as usual when the day was done. That is to say, she was being chaffed without mercy, and was enjoying it. She would let off peal after peal of laughter, and then sit with her face in her hands and shake with throes of enjoyment which she could no longer get breath enough to express. At such a moment as this a thought occurred to me, and I said:—
“Aunt Rachel, how is it that you’ve lived sixty years and never had any trouble?”
She stopped quaking. She paused, and there was a moment of silence. She turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without even a smile in her voice:—
“Misto C—, is you in ’arnest?”
It surprised me a good deal; and it sobered my manner and my speech, too. I said:—
“Why, I thought—that is, I meant—why, you can’t have had any trouble. I’ve never heard you sigh, and never seen your eye when there wasn’t a laugh in it.”
She faced fairly around, now, and was full of earnestness.
“Has I had any trouble? Misto C—, I’s gwyne to tell you, den I leave it to you. I was bawn down ‘mongst de slaves; I knows all ’bout slavery, ‘case I ben one of ’em my own se‘f. Well, sah, my ole man—dat’s my husban’—he was lovin’ an’ kind to me, jist as kind as you is to yo’ own wife. An’ we had chil‘en—seven chil’en—an’ we loved dem chil‘en jist de same as you loves you’ chil’en. Dey was black, but de Lord can’t make no chil‘en so black but what dey mother loves ’em an’ wouldn’t give ’em up, no, not for anything dat’s in dis whole world.
“Well, sah, I was raised in ole Fo‘ginny, but my mother she was raised in Maryland; an’ my souls! she was turrible when she’d git started! My lan’! but she’d make de fur fly! When she’d git into dem tantrums, she always had one word dat she said. She’d straighten herse‘f up an’ put her fists in her hips an’ say, ‘I want you to understan’ dat I wa‘n’t bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ ‘Ca’se, you see, dat’s what folks dat’s bawn in Maryland calls deyselves, an’ dey’s proud of it. Well, dat was her word. I don’t ever forgit it, beca‘se she said it so much, an’ beca’se she said it one day when my little Henry tore his wris’ awful, an’ most busted his head, right up at de top of his forehead, an’ de niggers didn’t fly aroun’ fas’ enough to ‘tend to him. An’ when dey talk’ back at her, she up an’ she says, ‘Look-a-heah!’ she says, ‘I want you niggers to understan’ dat I wa‘n’t bawn in de mash to be fool’ by trash! I’s one o’ de ole Blue Hen’s Chickens, I is!’ an’ den she clar’ dat kitchen an’ bandage’ up de chile herse’f. So I says dat word, too, when I’s riled.
“Well, bymeby my ole mistis say she’s broke, an’ she got to sell all de niggers on de place. An’ when I heah dat dey gwyne to sell us all off at oction in Richmon’, oh de good gracious! I know what dat mean!”
Aunt Rachel had gradually risen, while she warmed to her subject, and now she towered above us, black against the stars.
“Dey put chains on us an’ put us on a stan’ as high as dis po‘ch,—twenty foot high,—an’ all de people stood aroun’, crowds an’ crowds. An’ dey ’d come up dah an’ look at us all roun‘, an’ squeeze our arm, an’ make us git up an’ walk, an’ den say, ‘Dis one too ole,’ or ‘Dis one lame,’ or ‘Dis one don’t ’mount to much.’ An’ dey sole my ole man, an’ took him away, an’ dey begin to sell my chil’en an’ take dem away, an’ I begin to cry; an’ de man say, ‘Shet up yo’ dam blubberin’,’ an’ hit me on de mouf wid his han’. An’ when de las’ one was gone but my little Henry, I grab’ him clost up to my breas’ so, an’ I ris up an’ says, ‘You shan’t take him away,’ I says; ‘I’ll kill de man dat tetches him!’ I says. But my little Henry whisper an’ say, ‘I gwyne to run away, an’ den I work an’ buy yo’ freedom.’ Oh, bless de chile, he always so good! But dey got him—dey got him, de men did; but I took and tear de clo‘es mos’ off of ’em, an’ beat ’em over de head wid my chain; an’ dey give it to me, too, but I didn’t mine dat.
“Well, dah was my ole man gone, an’ all my chil‘en, all my seven chil’en—an’ six of ‘em I hain’t set eyes on ag’in to dis day, an’ dat’s twenty-two year ago las’ Easter. De man dat bought me b‘long’ in Newbern, an’ he took me dah. Well, bymeby de years roll on an’ de waw come. My marster he was a Confedrit colonel, an’ I was his family’s cook. So when de Unions took dat town, dey all run away an’ lef’ me all by myse’f wid de other niggers in dat mons‘us big house. So de big Union officers move in dah, an’ dey ask me would I cook for dem. ‘Lord bless you,’ says I, ‘dat’s what I’s for.’
“Dey wa‘n’t no small-fry officers, mine you, dey was de biggest dey is ; an’ de way dey made dem sojers mosey roun’! De Gen‘l he tole me to boss dat kitchen; an’ he say, ‘If anybody come meddlin’ wid you, you jist make ‘em walk chalk; don’t you be afeard,’ he say; ‘you’s ’mong frens, now.’
“Well, I thinks to myse‘f, if my little Henry ever got a chance to run away, he’d make to de Norf, o’ course. So one day I comes in dah whah de big officers was, in de parlor, an’ I drops a kurtchy, so, an’ I up an’ tole ’em ‘bout my Henry, dey a-listenin’ to my troubles jist de same as if I was white folks; an’ I says, ‘What I come for is beca‘se if he got away and got up Norf whah you gemmen comes from, you might ’a’ seen him, maybe, an’ could tell me so as I could fine him ag‘in; he was very little, an’ he had a sk-yar on his lef’ wris’, an’ at de top of his forehead.’ Den dey look mournful, an’ de Gen’l say, ‘How long sence you los’ him?’ an’ I say, ‘Thirteen year.’ Den de Gen‘l say, ‘He wouldn’t be little no mo‘, now—he’s a man!’
