Tom Sawyer - Chapter 2 - Bedtime Story

This recording stays sentence-by-sentence close to Mark Twain’s original classic, while gently updating language to make it easier to understand for today’s listeners. Care has been taken to remove or soften outdated and offensive terms, allowing the heart, humor, and mischief of the story to shine through without distraction.

Perfect for relaxation, mindful listening, bedtime enjoyment, or introducing classic literature to a new generation, this reading preserves the charm, wit, and playful spirit that have made Tom Sawyer beloved for over a century.

For those seeking nostalgia, families listening together, and anyone who wants to experience a literary classic in a more inclusive and approachable way.

Transcript

Hello and welcome,

It's Gina here.

We will be continuing to read Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain,

The modernized version that is very close to the original.

So here is chapter 2.

Saturday morning had arrived and the whole summer world was bright and fresh and overflowing with life.

There was music in every heart and if the heart was young the music came out through the lips.

Cheer showed on every face and there was a spring in every step.

The locust trees were in bloom and the scent of their blossoms filled the air.

Cardiff Hill,

Beyond and above the village,

Was green with growth and it lay just far enough away to seem like a promised land,

Dreamy,

Restful and inviting.

Tom appeared on the sidewalk carrying a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush.

He looked at the fence and all happiness drained out of him,

Replaced by deep misery.

30 yards of wooden fence,

Nine feet high.

Life suddenly felt empty and existence itself seemed like a burden.

Sighing,

He dipped the brush and swept it along the top plank,

Did it again,

Once more.

Then compared the thin strip of fresh white with the vast stretch of unpainted fence and sat down on a tree box,

Discouraged.

Jim came skipping out through the gate with a tin pail singing Buffalo Gals.

Carrying water from the town pump had always been hateful work to Tom,

But now it didn't seem so bad.

He remembered that the pump was a popular gathering place.

Boys and girls of all kinds were always there,

Waiting their turns,

Resting,

Trading toys,

Arguing,

Fighting and fooling around.

And he remembered that even though the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards away,

Jim never came back with a bucket of water in less than an hour.

And even then,

Someone usually had to be sent after him.

Tom said,

Say Jim,

I'll fetch the water if you'll do some whitewashing.

Jim shook his head and said,

Can't Tom.

Mrs.

Told me I gotta go get the water and not stop fooling around with anybody.

She said she'd figure you'd asked me to whitewash and told me to mind my own business.

She said she'd take care of the whitewashing herself.

Oh,

Don't worry about what she said,

Jim.

That's just how she talks.

Give me the bucket,

I won't be gone more than a minute,

She'll never know.

Oh,

I don't dare,

Tom.

She'd tear the hide off me,

She sure would.

She never really hits anybody,

Just taps them on the head with her thimble.

Who cares about that?

She talks best,

But she doesn't hurt,

As long as she doesn't cry.

Jim,

I'll give you a prize,

I'll give you a white alley marble.

Jim began to hesitate.

A white alley,

Jim?

And it's a good shooter?

My,

That's a mighty fine prize.

But Tom,

I'm awful scared of the Mrs.

And besides,

If you do it,

I'll show you my sore toe.

Jim was human,

This temptation was too much.

He set down his pail,

Took the white alley marble and bent over the toe with deep interest while the bandage was being unwound.

A moment later,

Jim was flying down the street with his pail and a stinging backside.

Tom was whitewashing energetically and Aunt Polly was retreating from the scene with a slipper in her hand and victory in her eye.

But Tom's enthusiasm didn't last long.

He began thinking about all the fun he had planned for the day and his misery multiplied.

Soon the free boys would come strolling by on all sorts of delightful adventures and they would make endless fun of him having to work.

The thought burned like fire.

He pulled out his worldly treasures and examined them.

Odds and ends of toys,

Marbles and junk.

Enough to maybe buy a little work from someone,

But not nearly enough to buy even half an hour of freedom.

He put his meager fortune back into his pocket and gave up on the idea of bribing the boys.

At that dark and hopeless moment,

Inspiration struck him.

Nothing less than a grand magnificent inspiration.

He picked up his brush and calmly went back to work.

Ben Rogers came into view shortly,

The very boy whose mockery Tom had been dreading the most.

Ben's walk was a hop,

Skip and jump.

Proof that his spirits were high and his expectations even higher.

He was eating an apple and letting out long musical whoops at intervals followed by deep toned ding-dong-dong sounds because he was pretending to be a steamboat.

As he got closer,

He slowed down,

Took the middle of the street,

Leaned far to one side and turned ponderously with great ceremony,

For he was playing the role of the big Missouri and imagined himself drawing nine feet of water.

He was a boat,

Captain and engine bells all at once,

So he pictured himself on the hurricane deck giving orders and carrying them out.

Stop here sir,

Ting-a-ting-a-ling-a-ling.

The forward motion nearly stopped as he drifted towards the sidewalk.

Reverse engines,

Ting-a-ling-a-ling.

His arms straightened stiffly by his side.

Back on the starboard,

Ting-a-ling-a-ling.

Chow,

Choo-choo,

Wow,

Chow.

His right hand traced grand circles representing a 40-foot paddle wheel.

Back on the port side,

Ting-a-ling-a-ling,

Chit-chat-chow.

His left hand began circling.

Stop starboard,

Ting-a-ling-a-ling.

Stop port.

Forward on starboard,

Stop her.

Let the outside world turn slow,

Ting-a-ling-a-ling,

Chow-ow-ow.

Get out that headline,

Lively now,

Come on,

Out with your young springline.

What are you about?

And take a turn around that stump,

Stand by the stage,

Let her go,

Engine stop,

Sir,

Ting-a-ling-a-ling,

Chit-chit-ch.

Tom kept right on whitewashing,

Paying no attention to the steamboat.

Ben stared for a moment,

Then said,

Well,

Well,

You'll stop working,

Aren't you?

No reply.

Tom inspected his last stroke like an artist,

Gave the brush another careful sweep,

And examined the result again.

Ben sided up next to him.

Tom's mouth watered for the apple,

But he stuck to his work.

Ben said,

Hello old fellow,

Got to work today,

Huh?

Tom turned suddenly and said,

Why,

It's you,

Ben,

I didn't notice.

Say,

I'm going swimming,

Don't you wish you could?

But I guess you'd rather work,

Wouldn't you?

Of course you would.

Tom studied him for a moment and said,

What do you call work?

Why,

Isn't that work?

Tom resumed whitewashing and answered casually,

Well,

Maybe it is,

And maybe it isn't.

All I know is it suits Tom Sawyer.

Oh,

Come on,

You don't mean to say you like it?

The brush kept moving.

Like it?

I don't see why I shouldn't.

Does a boy get the chance to whitewash a fence every day?

That changed everything.

Ben stopped chewing his apple,

And Tom brushed delicately back and forth,

Stepping back to judge the effect,

Added a touch here and there,

Criticized the work again.

Ben watched every move,

Growing more interested,

More absorbed.

At last he said,

Say,

Tom,

Let me whitewash a little.

Tom thought it over and was just about to agree.

Then he changed his mind.

No,

No,

I don't reckon that would do,

Ben.

You see,

Aunt Polly's very particular about this fence,

Right here on the street.

If it were the back fence,

She wouldn't mind,

Neither would I,

But this one's special.

It's got to be done just right.

I reckon there isn't one boy in a thousand,

Maybe two thousand,

That could do it properly.

No,

Really?

Oh,

Come on,

Let me try,

Just a little.

I'd let you if you were me.

Ben,

I'd like to,

Honest,

But Aunt Polly,

Well… Jim wanted to do it,

And she wouldn't let him.

Sid wanted to,

And she wouldn't let him either.

Now don't you see how I'm stuck?

If you were to mess it up and anything happened… Oh,

Nonsense,

I'll be careful,

Let me try.

I'll give you my apple core.

Well,

Here,

No,

Ben,

Don't,

I'm afraid.

I'll give you all of it.

Tom handed over the brush,

Reluctance on his face and eagerness in his heart,

While the former steamboat Big Missouri laboured in the sun and the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade,

Swinging his legs,

Eating his apple and planning how to trap more victims.

There was no shortage of material.

Boys came along constantly.

They came to laugh but stayed to whitewash.

By the time Ben wore out,

Tom had already traded the next turn to Billy Fisher for a kite in good shape.

When Billy finished,

Johnny Miller brought in with a dead rat and a string to swing it with.

And so it went,

Hour after hour.

By mid-afternoon,

Tom,

Who had been a poor,

Penniless boy in the morning,

Was rolling in wealth.

Besides the earlier items,

He owned 12 marbles,

A pair of Jew's harp,

A piece of blue bottle glass to look through,

A toy cannon,

A key that unlocked nothing,

A bit of chalk,

A decanter stopper,

A tin soldier,

Two tadpoles,

Six firecrackers,

A one-eyed kitten,

A brass doorknob,

A dog collar with no dog,

A knife handle,

Four pieces of orange peel and a broken old window sash.

He had enjoyed a fine,

Lazy day,

Plenty of company and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it.

If he hadn't run out of paint,

He would have bankrupt every boy in the village.

Tom decided that the world wasn't such a bleak place after all.

Without realising it,

He had discovered a great law of human behaviour.

To make someone desire something,

You need only make it hard to get.

If he had been a great and wise philosopher,

Like the author of this book,

He would have understood that work is whatever someone is forced to do,

And play is whatever they are not forced to do.

That explains why making artificial flowers or walking on a treadmill is work,

While bowling or climbing Mount Blanc is considered pleasure.

There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four horse coaches 20 or 30 miles a day in summer because it costs them money,

But if they were paid to do it,

It would become work and they would quit.

The boy reflected for a while on the dramatic change in his fortunes,

Then headed towards Headquarters to report.

If you've enjoyed this reading,

Feel free to join us for Chapter 3.

Reviews

Today I had an awesome day but now after listening it was even better!!! Thank you 🙏

How many stories of Tom Sawyer are there? 🤔