The $30,000 Bequest, Mark Twain [best book club books for discussion TXT] 📗

only get it back again—

 

But of course there is no telling where it went to. And besides,

whoever gets it will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself.

I believe I can be honest in all other matters, but I already

begin to realize that the core and center of my nature is love

of the beautiful, a passion for the beautiful, and that it would

not be safe to trust me with a moon that belonged to another person

and that person didn’t know I had it. I could give up a moon that I

found in the daytime, because I should be afraid some one was looking;

but if I found it in the dark, I am sure I should find some kind

of an excuse for not saying anything about it. For I do love moons,

they are so pretty and so romantic. I wish we had five or six;

I would never go to bed; I should never get tired lying on the moss-bank

and looking up at them.

 

Stars are good, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair.

But I suppose I never can. You would be surprised to find how far

off they are, for they do not look it. When they first showed,

last night, I tried to knock some down with a pole, but it didn’t reach,

which astonished me; then I tried clods till I was all tired out,

but I never got one. It was because I am left-handed and cannot

throw good. Even when I aimed at the one I wasn’t after I

couldn’t hit the other one, though I did make some close shots,

for I saw the black blot of the clod sail right into the midst of

the golden clusters forty or fifty times, just barely missing them,

and if I could have held out a little longer maybe I could have

got one.

 

So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one of my age,

and after I was rested I got a basket and started for a place on the

extreme rim of the circle, where the stars were close to the ground

and I could get them with my hands, which would be better, anyway,

because I could gather them tenderly then, and not break them.

But it was farther than I thought, and at last I had go give it up;

I was so tired I couldn’t drag my feet another step; and besides,

they were sore and hurt me very much.

 

I couldn’t get back home; it was too far and turning cold;

but I found some tigers and nestled in among them and was most

adorably comfortable, and their breath was sweet and pleasant,

because they live on strawberries. I had never seen a tiger before,

but I knew them in a minute by the stripes. If I could have one

of those skins, it would make a lovely gown.

 

Today I am getting better ideas about distances. I was so eager

to get hold of every pretty thing that I giddily grabbed for it,

sometimes when it was too far off, and sometimes when it was but

six inches away but seemed a foot—alas, with thorns between!

I learned a lesson; also I made an axiom, all out of my own head—

my very first one; THE SCRATCHED EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE THORN.

I think it is a very good one for one so young.

 

I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon,

at a distance, to see what it might be for, if I could. But I was

not able to make out. I think it is a man. I had never seen a man,

but it looked like one, and I feel sure that that is what it is.

I realize that I feel more curiosity about it than about any

of the other reptiles. If it is a reptile, and I suppose it is;

for it has frowzy hair and blue eyes, and looks like a reptile.

It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot; when it stands, it spreads

itself apart like a derrick; so I think it is a reptile, though it may

be architecture.

 

I was afraid of it at first, and started to run every time it

turned around, for I thought it was going to chase me; but by

and by I found it was only trying to get away, so after that I

was not timid any more, but tracked it along, several hours,

about twenty yards behind, which made it nervous and unhappy.

At last it was a good deal worried, and climbed a tree. I waited

a good while, then gave it up and went home.

 

Today the same thing over. I’ve got it up the tree again.

 

SUNDAY.—It is up there yet. Resting, apparently. But that is

a subterfuge: Sunday isn’t the day of rest; Saturday is appointed

for that. It looks to me like a creature that is more interested

in resting than it anything else. It would tire me to rest so much.

It tires me just to sit around and watch the tree. I do wonder

what it is for; I never see it do anything.

 

They returned the moon last night, and I was SO happy! I think

it is very honest of them. It slid down and fell off again,

but I was not distressed; there is no need to worry when one has

that kind of neighbors; they will fetch it back. I wish I could

do something to show my appreciation. I would like to send them

some stars, for we have more than we can use. I mean I, not we,

for I can see that the reptile cares nothing for such things.

 

It has low tastes, and is not kind. When I went there yesterday

evening in the gloaming it had crept down and was trying to catch

the little speckled fishes that play in the pool, and I had

to clod it to make it go up the tree again and let them alone.

I wonder if THAT is what it is for? Hasn’t it any heart?

Hasn’t it any compassion for those little creature? Can it be

that it was designed and manufactured for such ungentle work?

It has the look of it. One of the clods took it back of the ear,

and it used language. It gave me a thrill, for it was the first time I

had ever heard speech, except my own. I did not understand the words,

but they seemed expressive.

 

When I found it could talk I felt a new interest in it, for I

love to talk; I talk, all day, and in my sleep, too, and I am

very interesting, but if I had another to talk to I could be twice

as interesting, and would never stop, if desired.

 

If this reptile is a man, it isn’t an IT, is it? That wouldn’t

be grammatical, would it? I think it would be HE. I think so.

In that case one would parse it thus: nominative, HE; dative, HIM;

possessive, HIS’N. Well, I will consider it a man and call it he

until it turns out to be something else. This will be handier

than having so many uncertainties.

 

NEXT WEEK SUNDAY.—All the week I tagged around after him and tried

to get acquainted. I had to do the talking, because he was shy,

but I didn’t mind it. He seemed pleased to have me around, and I

used the sociable “we” a good deal, because it seemed to flatter him

to be included.

 

WEDNESDAY.—We are getting along very well indeed, now, and getting

better and better acquainted. He does not try to avoid me any more,

which is a good sign, and shows that he likes to have me with him.

That pleases me, and I study to be useful to him in every way I can,

so as to increase his regard. During the last day or two I

have taken all the work of naming things off his hands, and this

has been a great relief to him, for he has no gift in that line,

and is evidently very grateful. He can’t think of a rational name

to save him, but I do not let him see that I am aware of his defect.

Whenever a new creature comes along I name it before he has time

to expose himself by an awkward silence. In this way I have

saved him many embarrassments. I have no defect like this.

The minute I set eyes on an animal I know what it is. I don’t

have to reflect a moment; the right name comes out instantly,

just as if it were an inspiration, as no doubt it is, for I am

sure it wasn’t in me half a minute before. I seem to know just

by the shape of the creature and the way it acts what animal

it is.

 

When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat—I saw it

in his eye. But I saved him. And I was careful not to do it

in a way that could hurt his pride. I just spoke up in a quite

natural way of pleasing surprise, and not as if I was dreaming

of conveying information, and said, “Well, I do declare, if there

isn’t the dodo!” I explained—without seeming to be explaining—

how I know it for a dodo, and although I thought maybe he was

a little piqued that I knew the creature when he didn’t, it was

quite evident that he admired me. That was very agreeable, and I

thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept.

How little a thing can make us happy when we feel that we have

earned it!

 

THURSDAY.—my first sorrow. Yesterday he avoided me and seemed

to wish I would not talk to him. I could not believe it,

and thought there was some mistake, for I loved to be with him,

and loved to hear him talk, and so how could it be that he could

feel unkind toward me when I had not done anything? But at last it

seemed true, so I went away and sat lonely in the place where I first

saw him the morning that we were made and I did not know what he

was and was indifferent about him; but now it was a mournful place,

and every little think spoke of him, and my heart was very sore.

I did not know why very clearly, for it was a new feeling; I had

not experienced it before, and it was all a mystery, and I could

not make it out.

 

But when night came I could not bear the lonesomeness, and went

to the new shelter which he has built, to ask him what I had done

that was wrong and how I could mend it and get back his kindness again;

but he put me out in the rain, and it was my first sorrow.

 

SUNDAY.—It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but those were

heavy days; I do not think of them when I can help it.

 

I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn to

throw straight. I failed, but I think the good intention pleased him.

They are forbidden, and he says I shall come to harm; but so I

come to harm through pleasing him, why shall I care for that harm?

 

MONDAY.—This morning I told him my name, hoping it would interest him.

But he did not care for it. It is strange. If he should tell me

his name, I would care. I think