• Home
  • Mark Twain
  • Autobiography of Mark Twain: The Complete and Authoritative Edition, Volume 1 Page 35

Autobiography of Mark Twain: The Complete and Authoritative Edition, Volume 1 Read online

Page 35


  My parents removed to Missouri in the early thirties; I do not remember just when, for I was not born then, and cared nothing for such things. It was a long journey in those days, and must have been a rough and tiresome one. The home was made in the wee village of Florida, in Monroe County, and I was born there in 1835. The village contained a hundred people and I increased the population by 1 per cent. It is more than the best man in history ever did for any other town. It may not be modest in me to refer to this, but it is true. There is no record of a person doing as much—not even Shakspeare. But I did it for Florida, and it shows that I could have done it for any place—even London, I suppose.

  Recently some one in Missouri has sent me a picture of the house I was born in. Heretofore I have always stated that it was a palace, but I shall be more guarded, now.

  I remember only one circumstance connected with my life in it. I remember it very well, though I was but two and a half years old at the time. The family packed up everything and started in wagons for Hannibal, on the Mississippi, thirty miles away. Toward night, when they camped and counted up the children, one was missing. I was the one. I had been left behind. Parents ought always to count the children before they start. I was having a good enough time playing by myself until I found that the doors were fastened and that there was a grisly deep silence brooding over the place. I knew, then, that the family were gone, and that they had forgotten me. I was well frightened, and I made all the noise I could, but no one was near and it did no good. I spent the afternoon in captivity and was not rescued till the gloaming had fallen and the place was alive with ghosts.

  My brother Henry was six months old at that time. I used to remember his walking into a fire outdoors when he was a week old. It was remarkable in me to remember a thing like that, which occurred when I was so young. And it was still more remarkable that I should cling to the delusion, for thirty years, that I did remember it—for of course it never happened; he would not have been able to walk at that age. If I had stopped to reflect, I should not have burdened my memory with that impossible rubbish so long. It is believed by many people that an impression deposited in a child’s memory within the first two years of its life cannot remain there five years, but that is an error. The incident of Benvenuto Cellini and the salamander must be accepted as authentic and trustworthy; and then that remarkable and indisputable instance in the experience of Helen Keller—however, I will speak of that at another time. For many years I believed that I remembered helping my grandfather drink his whisky toddy when I was six weeks old, but I do not tell about that any more, now; I am grown old, and my memory is not as active as it used to be. When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not; but my faculties are decaying, now, and soon I shall be so I cannot remember any but the latter. It is sad to go to pieces like this, but we all have to do it.

  My uncle, John A. Quarles, was a farmer, and his place was in the country four miles from Florida. He had eight children, and fifteen or twenty negroes, and was also fortunate in other ways. Particularly in his character. I have not come across a better man than he was. I was his guest for two or three months every year, from the fourth year after we removed to Hannibal till I was eleven or twelve years old. I have never consciously used him or his wife in a book, but his farm has come very handy to me in literature, once or twice. In “Huck Finn” and in “Tom Sawyer Detective” I moved it down to Arkansas. It was all of six hundred miles, but it was no trouble, it was not a very large farm; five hundred acres, perhaps, but I could have done it if it had been twice as large. And as for the morality of it, I cared nothing for that; I would move a State if the exigencies of literature required it.

  It was a heavenly place for a boy, that farm of my uncle John’s. The house was a double log one, with a spacious floor (roofed in) connecting it with the kitchen. In the summer the table was set in the middle of that shady and breezy floor, and the sumptuous meals—well, it makes me cry to think of them. Fried chicken; roast pig; wild and tame turkeys, ducks, and geese; venison just killed; squirrels, rabbits, pheasants, partridges, prairie chickens; home-made bacon and ham; hot biscuits, hot batter-cakes, hot buckwheat cakes, hot “wheatbread,” hot rolls, hot corn pone; fresh corn boiled on the ear, succotash, butter-beans, string beans, tomatoes, peas, Irish potatoes, sweet potatoes; buttermilk, sweet milk, “clabber;” watermelons, musk melons, canteloups—all fresh from the garden—apple pie, peach pie, pumpkin pie, apple dumplings, peach cobbler—I can’t remember the rest. The way that the things were cooked was perhaps the main splendor—particularly a certain few of the dishes. For instance, the corn bread, the hot biscuits and wheatbread, and the fried chicken. These things have never been properly cooked in the North—in fact, no one there is able to learn the art, so far as my experience goes. The North thinks it knows how to make corn bread, but this is gross superstition. Perhaps no bread in the world is quite as good as Southern corn bread, and perhaps no bread in the world is quite so bad as the Northern imitation of it. The North seldom tries to fry chicken, and this is well; the art cannot be learned north of the line of Mason and Dixon, nor anywhere in Europe. This is not hearsay; it is experience that is speaking. In Europe it is imagined that the custom of serving various kinds of bread blazing hot is “American,” but that is too broad a spread: it is custom in the South, but is much less than that in the North. In the North and in Europe hot bread is considered unhealthy. This is probably another fussy superstition, like the European superstition that ice-water is unhealthy. Europe does not need ice-water, and does not drink it; and yet, notwithstanding this, its word for it is better than ours, because it describes it, whereas ours doesn’t. Europe calls it “iced” water. Our word describes water made from melted ice—a drink which has a characterless taste, and which we have but little acquaintance with.

  It seems a pity that the world should throw away so many good things merely because they are unwholesome. I doubt if God has given us any refreshment which, taken in moderation, is unwholesome, except microbes. Yet there are people who strictly deprive themselves of each and every eatable, drinkable and smokable which has in any way acquired a shady reputation. They pay this price for health. And health is all they get for it. How strange it is; it is like paying out your whole fortune for a cow that has gone dry.

  The farm-house stood in the middle of a very large yard, and the yard was fenced on three sides with rails and on the rear side with high palings; against these stood the smoke-house; beyond the palings was the orchard, beyond the orchard were the negro quarter and the tobacco fields. The front yard was entered over a stile, made of sawed-off logs of graduated heights; I do not remember any gate. In a corner of the front yard were a dozen lofty hickory trees and a dozen black walnuts, and in the nutting season riches were to be gathered there.

  Down a piece, abreast the house, stood a little log cabin against the rail fence; and there the woody hill fell sharply away, past the barns, the corn-crib, the stables and the tobacco-curing house, to a limpid brook which sang along over its gravelly bed and curved and frisked in and out and here and there and yonder in the deep shade of overhanging foliage and vines—a divine place for wading, and it had swimming-pools, too, which were forbidden to us and therefore much frequented by us. For we were little Christian children, and had early been taught the value of forbidden fruit.

  In the little log cabin lived a bedridden white-headed slave woman whom we visited daily, and looked upon with awe, for we believed she was upwards of a thousand years old and had talked with Moses. The younger negroes credited these statistics, and had furnished them to us in good faith. We accommodated all the details which came to us about her; and so we believed that she had lost her health in the long desert-trip coming out of Egypt, and had never been able to get it back again. She had a round bald place on the crown of her head, and we used to creep around and gaze at it in reverent silence, and reflect that it was caused by fright through seeing Pharaoh drowned. We called her “Aunt
” Hannah, Southern fashion. She was superstitious like the other negroes; also, like them, she was deeply religious. Like them, she had great faith in prayer, and employed it in all ordinary exigencies, but not in cases where a dead certainty of result was urgent. Whenever witches were around she tied up the remnant of her wool in little tufts, with white thread, and this promptly made the witches impotent.

  All the negroes were friends of ours, and with those of our own age we were in effect comrades. I say in effect, using the phrase as a modification. We were comrades, and yet not comrades; color and condition interposed a subtle line which both parties were conscious of, and which rendered complete fusion impossible. We had a faithful and affectionate good friend, ally and adviser in “Uncle Dan’l,” a middle-aged slave whose head was the best one in the negro-quarter, whose sympathies were wide and warm, and whose heart was honest and simple and knew no guile. He has served me well, these many, many years. I have not seen him for more than half a century, and yet spiritually I have had his welcome company a good part of that time, and have staged him in books under his own name and as “Jim,” and carted him all around—to Hannibal, down the Mississippi on a raft, and even across the Desert of Sahara in a balloon—and he has endured it all with the patience and friendliness and loyalty which were his birthright. It was on the farm that I got my strong liking for his race and my appreciation of certain of its fine qualities. This feeling and this estimate have stood the test of sixty years and more and have suffered no impairment. The black face is as welcome to me now as it was then.

  In my schoolboy days I had no aversion to slavery. I was not aware that there was anything wrong about it. No one arraigned it in my hearing; the local papers said nothing against it; the local pulpit taught us that God approved it, that it was a holy thing, and that the doubter need only look in the Bible if he wished to settle his mind—and then the texts were read aloud to us to make the matter sure; if the slaves themselves had an aversion to slavery they were wise and said nothing. In Hannibal we seldom saw a slave misused; on the farm, never.

  There was, however, one small incident of my boyhood days which touched this matter, and it must have meant a good deal to me or it would not have stayed in my memory, clear and sharp, vivid and shadowless, all these slow-drifting years. We had a little slave boy whom we had hired from some one, there in Hannibal. He was from the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and had been brought away from his family and his friends, half way across the American continent, and sold. He was a cheery spirit, innocent and gentle, and the noisiest creature that ever was, perhaps. All day long he was singing, whistling, yelling, whooping, laughing—it was maddening, devastating, unendurable. At last, one day, I lost all my temper, and went raging to my mother, and said Sandy had been singing for an hour without a single break, and I couldn’t stand it, and wouldn’t she please shut him up. The tears came into her eyes, and her lip trembled, and she said something like this—

  “Poor thing, when he sings, it shows that he is not remembering, and that comforts me; but when he is still, I am afraid he is thinking, and I cannot bear it. He will never see his mother again; if he can sing, I must not hinder it, but be thankful for it. If you were older, you would understand me; then that friendless child’s noise would make you glad.”

  It was a simple speech, and made up of small words, but it went home, and Sandy’s noise was not a trouble to me any more. She never used large words, but she had a natural gift for making small ones do effective work. She lived to reach the neighborhood of ninety years, and was capable with her tongue to the last—especially when a meanness or an injustice roused her spirit. She has come handy to me several times in my books, where she figures as Tom Sawyer’s “Aunt Polly.” I fitted her out with a dialect, and tried to think up other improvements for her, but did not find any. I used Sandy once, also; it was in “Tom Sawyer;” I tried to get him to whitewash the fence, but it did not work. I do not remember what name I called him by in the book.

  I can see the farm yet, with perfect clearness. I can see all its belongings, all its details: the family room of the house, with a “trundle” bed in one corner and a spinning-wheel in another—a wheel whose rising and falling wail, heard from a distance, was the mournfulest of all sounds to me, and made me homesick and low-spirited, and filled my atmosphere with the wandering spirits of the dead; the vast fireplace, piled high, on winter nights, with flaming hickory logs from whose ends a sugary sap bubbled out but did not go to waste, for we scraped it off and ate it; the lazy cat spread out on the rough hearthstones, the drowsy dogs braced against the jambs and blinking; my aunt in one chimney corner knitting, my uncle in the other smoking his corn-cob pipe; the slick and carpetless oak floor faintly mirroring the dancing flame-tongues and freckled with black indentations where fire-coals had popped out and died a leisurely death; half a dozen children romping in the background twilight; “split”-bottomed chairs here and there, some with rockers; a cradle—out of service, but waiting, with confidence; in the early cold mornings a snuggle of children, in shirts and chemises, occupying the hearthstone and procrastinating—they could not bear to leave that comfortable place and go out on the wind-swept floor-space between house and kitchen where the general tin basin stood, and wash.

  Along outside of the front fence ran the country road; dusty in the summertime, and a good place for snakes—they liked to lie in it and sun themselves; when they were rattlesnakes or puff adders, we killed them; when they were black snakes, or racers, or belonged to the fabled “hoop” breed, we fled, without shame; when they were “house-snakes” or “garters” we carried them home and put them in Aunt Patsy’s work-basket for a surprise; for she was prejudiced against snakes, and always when she took the basket in her lap and they began to climb out of it it disordered her mind. She never could seem to get used to them; her opportunities went for nothing. And she was always cold toward bats, too, and could not bear them; and yet I think a bat is as friendly a bird as there is. My mother was Aunt Patsy’s sister, and had the same wild superstitions. A bat is beautifully soft and silky; I do not know any creature that is pleasanter to the touch, or is more grateful for caressings, if offered in the right spirit. I know all about these coleoptera, because our great cave, three miles below Hannibal, was multitudinously stocked with them, and often I brought them home to amuse my mother with. It was easy to manage if it was a school day, because then I had ostensibly been to school and hadn’t any bats. She was not a suspicious person, but full of trust and confidence; and when I said “There’s something in my coat-pocket for you,” she would put her hand in. But she always took it out again, herself; I didn’t have to tell her. It was remarkable, the way she couldn’t learn to like private bats. The more experience she had, the more she could not change her views.

  I think she was never in the cave in her life; but everybody else went there. Many excursion-parties came from considerable distances up and down the river to visit the cave. It was miles in extent, and was a tangled wilderness of narrow and lofty clefts and passages. It was an easy place to get lost in; anybody could do it—including the bats. I got lost in it myself, along with a lady, and our last candle burned down to almost nothing before we glimpsed the search-party’s lights winding about in the distance.

  “Injun Joe” the half-breed got lost in there once, and would have starved to death if the bats had run short. But there was no chance of that; there were myriads of them. He told me all his story. In the book called “Tom Sawyer” I starved him entirely to death in the cave, but that was in the interest of art; it never happened. “General” Gaines, who was our first town-drunkard before Jimmy Finn got the place, was lost in there for the space of a week, and finally pushed his handkerchief out of a hole in a hilltop near Saverton, several miles down the river from the cave’s mouth, and somebody saw it and dug him out. There is nothing the matter with his statistics except the handkerchief. I knew him for years, and he hadn’t any. But it could have been his nose. That would attrac
t attention.

  The cave was an uncanny place, for it contained a corpse—the corpse of a young girl of fourteen. It was in a glass cylinder enclosed in a copper one which was suspended from a rail which bridged a narrow passage. The body was preserved in alcohol, and it was said that loafers and rowdies used to drag it up by the hair and look at the dead face. The girl was the daughter of a St. Louis surgeon of extraordinary ability and wide celebrity. He was an eccentric man, and did many strange things. He put the poor thing in that forlorn place himself.

  He was a physician as well as a surgeon; and sometimes in cases where medicines failed to save, he developed other resources. He fell out, once, with a family whose physician he was, and after that they ceased to employ him. But a time came when he was once more called. The lady of the house was very ill, and had been given up by her doctors. He came into the room and stopped, and stood still, and looked around upon the scene; he had his great slouch hat on, and a quarter of an acre of gingerbread under his arm, and while he looked meditatively about, he broke hunks from his cake, munched them, and let the crumbs dribble down his breast to the floor. The lady lay pale and still, with her eyes closed; about the bed, in the solemn hush, were grouped the family softly sobbing, some standing, some kneeling. Presently the doctor began to take up the medicine bottles and sniff at them contemptuously and throw them out of the open window. When they were all gone he ranged up to the bed, laid his slab of gingerbread on the dying woman’s breast, and said roughly—

 

    A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's CourtAdventures of Huckleberry Finn Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry FinnThe Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 1. Read onlineThe Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 1.The Prince and the Pauper Read onlineThe Prince and the PauperThe American Claimant Read onlineThe American ClaimantEve's Diary, Complete Read onlineEve's Diary, CompleteExtracts from Adam's Diary, translated from the original ms. Read onlineExtracts from Adam's Diary, translated from the original ms.A Tramp Abroad Read onlineA Tramp AbroadThe Best Short Works of Mark Twain Read onlineThe Best Short Works of Mark TwainHumorous Hits and How to Hold an Audience Read onlineHumorous Hits and How to Hold an AudienceThe Speculative Fiction of Mark Twain Read onlineThe Speculative Fiction of Mark TwainThe Facts Concerning the Recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut Read onlineThe Facts Concerning the Recent Carnival of Crime in ConnecticutAlonzo Fitz, and Other Stories Read onlineAlonzo Fitz, and Other StoriesThe $30,000 Bequest, and Other Stories Read onlineThe $30,000 Bequest, and Other StoriesPudd'nhead Wilson and Those Extraordinary Twins Read onlinePudd'nhead Wilson and Those Extraordinary TwinsThe Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and the Undead Read onlineThe Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and the UndeadSketches New and Old Read onlineSketches New and OldThe Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg Read onlineThe Man That Corrupted HadleyburgA Tramp Abroad — Volume 06 Read onlineA Tramp Abroad — Volume 06A Tramp Abroad — Volume 02 Read onlineA Tramp Abroad — Volume 02The Prince and the Pauper, Part 1. Read onlineThe Prince and the Pauper, Part 1.Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 16 to 20 Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 16 to 20The Prince and the Pauper, Part 9. Read onlineThe Prince and the Pauper, Part 9.Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 21 to 25 Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 21 to 25Tom Sawyer, Detective Read onlineTom Sawyer, DetectiveA Tramp Abroad (Penguin ed.) Read onlineA Tramp Abroad (Penguin ed.)Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 36 to the Last Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 36 to the LastThe Mysterious Stranger, and Other Stories Read onlineThe Mysterious Stranger, and Other StoriesA Tramp Abroad — Volume 03 Read onlineA Tramp Abroad — Volume 03The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 3. Read onlineThe Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 3.Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 06 to 10 Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 06 to 10The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Tom Sawyer's Comrade) Read onlineThe Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Tom Sawyer's Comrade)Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 31 to 35 Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 31 to 35The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, and Other Stories Read onlineThe Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, and Other StoriesA Tramp Abroad — Volume 07 Read onlineA Tramp Abroad — Volume 07Editorial Wild Oats Read onlineEditorial Wild OatsAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 26 to 30 Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 26 to 301601: Conversation as it was by the Social Fireside in the Time of the Tudors Read online1601: Conversation as it was by the Social Fireside in the Time of the TudorsA Tramp Abroad — Volume 05 Read onlineA Tramp Abroad — Volume 05Sketches New and Old, Part 1. Read onlineSketches New and Old, Part 1.The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 2. Read onlineThe Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 2.A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 8. Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 8.A Tramp Abroad — Volume 01 Read onlineA Tramp Abroad — Volume 01The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 5. Read onlineThe Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 5.Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 01 to 05 Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 01 to 05A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 1. Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 1.The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 4. Read onlineThe Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 4.A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 2. Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 2.The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 7. Read onlineThe Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Part 7.A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 3. Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 3.Sketches New and Old, Part 4. Read onlineSketches New and Old, Part 4.Sketches New and Old, Part 3. Read onlineSketches New and Old, Part 3.A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 7. Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 7.A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 5. Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 5.A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 6. Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 6.A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 4. Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 4.Sketches New and Old, Part 2. Read onlineSketches New and Old, Part 2.Sketches New and Old, Part 6. Read onlineSketches New and Old, Part 6.Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 11 to 15 Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapters 11 to 15Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc Read onlinePersonal Recollections of Joan of ArcSketches New and Old, Part 5. Read onlineSketches New and Old, Part 5.Eve's Diary, Part 3 Read onlineEve's Diary, Part 3Sketches New and Old, Part 7. Read onlineSketches New and Old, Part 7.Mark Twain on Religion: What Is Man, the War Prayer, Thou Shalt Not Kill, the Fly, Letters From the Earth Read onlineMark Twain on Religion: What Is Man, the War Prayer, Thou Shalt Not Kill, the Fly, Letters From the EarthTales, Speeches, Essays, and Sketches Read onlineTales, Speeches, Essays, and SketchesA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 9. Read onlineA Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Part 9.Our Fellow Savages of the Sandwich Islands (version 1) Read onlineOur Fellow Savages of the Sandwich Islands (version 1)1601 Read online1601Letters from the Earth Read onlineLetters from the EarthCurious Republic Of Gondour, And Other Curious Whimsical Sketches Read onlineCurious Republic Of Gondour, And Other Curious Whimsical SketchesThe Mysterious Stranger Read onlineThe Mysterious StrangerLife on the Mississippi Read onlineLife on the MississippiRoughing It Read onlineRoughing ItAlonzo Fitz and Other Stories Read onlineAlonzo Fitz and Other StoriesThe 30,000 Dollar Bequest and Other Stories Read onlineThe 30,000 Dollar Bequest and Other StoriesThe Adventures of Huckleberry Finn taots-2 Read onlineThe Adventures of Huckleberry Finn taots-2A Double-Barreled Detective Story Read onlineA Double-Barreled Detective Storyadam's diary.txt Read onlineadam's diary.txtA Horse's Tale Read onlineA Horse's TaleAutobiography Of Mark Twain, Volume 1 Read onlineAutobiography Of Mark Twain, Volume 1The Comedy of Those Extraordinary Twins Read onlineThe Comedy of Those Extraordinary TwinsFollowing the Equator Read onlineFollowing the EquatorGoldsmith's Friend Abroad Again Read onlineGoldsmith's Friend Abroad AgainNo. 44, The Mysterious Stranger Read onlineNo. 44, The Mysterious StrangerThe Stolen White Elephant Read onlineThe Stolen White ElephantThe $30,000 Bequest and Other Stories Read onlineThe $30,000 Bequest and Other StoriesThe Curious Republic of Gondour, and Other Whimsical Sketches Read onlineThe Curious Republic of Gondour, and Other Whimsical SketchesPrince and the Pauper (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Read onlinePrince and the Pauper (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)The Portable Mark Twain Read onlineThe Portable Mark TwainConnecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Read onlineConnecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)The Adventures of Tom Sawyer taots-1 Read onlineThe Adventures of Tom Sawyer taots-1A Double Barrelled Detective Story Read onlineA Double Barrelled Detective StoryEve's Diary Read onlineEve's DiaryA Dog's Tale Read onlineA Dog's TaleThe Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts (Literature) Read onlineThe Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts (Literature)The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain Read onlineThe Complete Short Stories of Mark TwainWhat Is Man? and Other Essays Read onlineWhat Is Man? and Other EssaysThe Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Read onlineThe Adventures of Huckleberry FinnAdventures of Huckleberry Finn and Zombie Jim Read onlineAdventures of Huckleberry Finn and Zombie JimWho Is Mark Twain? Read onlineWho Is Mark Twain?Christian Science Read onlineChristian ScienceThe Innocents Abroad Read onlineThe Innocents AbroadSome Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion Read onlineSome Rambling Notes of an Idle ExcursionAutobiography of Mark Twain Read onlineAutobiography of Mark TwainThose Extraordinary Twins Read onlineThose Extraordinary TwinsAutobiography of Mark Twain: The Complete and Authoritative Edition, Volume 1 Read onlineAutobiography of Mark Twain: The Complete and Authoritative Edition, Volume 1