Tom Sawyer - Chapter 5 - 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 Care has been taken to remove or soften outdated and offensive terms, allowing the heart, humor, and mischief of the story to shine through without distraction.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'll be continuing with this modernised version of Mark Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,

Chapter 5.

Around 10.

30 the cracked bell of the little church began to ring,

And soon people started gathering for the morning sermon.

The Sunday school children spread out through the building and sat in pews with their parents so they could be kept under watch.

Aunt Polly came and Tom,

Sid and Mary sat with her.

Tom placed next to the aisle so he'd be as far as possible from the open window and the tempting summer scenes outside.

The crowd moved up the aisles,

The old and broke postmaster who had seen better days,

The mayor and his wife,

For they even had a mayor there,

Among other unnecessary things,

The Justice of the Peace,

The Widow Douglas,

Attractive,

Lively and forty,

A generous,

Warm-hearted and well-off woman,

Her hilltop house the only mansion in town and by far the most hospitable and lavish place in St Petersburg when it came to gatherings and celebrations,

The stooped and venerable Major and Mrs Wald,

Lawyer Riverson and the new important person from out of town,

Then the village bell,

Followed by a troupe of young heartbreakers in fresh lawn dresses and ribbons,

Then all the young clerks in town as a group,

For they had been standing in the vestibule sucking the knobs of their canes,

Forming a ring of oiled-up,

Smiling admirers,

Until the last girl had run their gauntlet,

And last of all came the model boy,

Willie Muffison,

Taking such careful care of his mother as if she were made of cut glass.

He always brought his mother to church,

And he was the pride of all the respectable women,

All of the boys hated him because he was so good,

And besides,

He had been held up as an example to them so often.

His white handkerchief was hanging out of his back pocket as usual on Sundays,

Purely by accident of course.

Tom had no handkerchief,

And he considered boys who did to be snobs.

Once the congregation was fully assembled,

The bell rang again to warn the late comers and stragglers,

And then a solemn hush settled over the church,

Broken only by the choir giggling and whispering in the galley.

The choir always giggled and whispered all through the service,

There once was a church choir that wasn't rude,

But I've forgotten where it was now,

It was a long time ago and I can barely remember anything about it,

But I think it was in some foreign country.

The minister announced the hymn and read it through with a pleased savour,

In a peculiar style that was greatly admired in that part of the country.

His voice began in a medium pitch and rose steadily until it reached a certain point,

Where he had hit the highest word with a heavy emphasis and then plunged down as if off a springboard.

Shall I be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease,

Whilst others fight to win the prize and sail through bloody seas?

He was considered a wonderful reader.

At church socials he always had been asked to read poetry,

And when he finished the ladies would lift their hands and let them drop helplessly into their laps,

Roll their eyes and shake their heads as if to say,

Words can't express it,

It's too beautiful,

Too beautiful for this mortal earth.

After the hymn was sung,

The reverend Mr Spradge turned himself into a bulletin board and read out notices of meetings,

Society and things until it seemed like the list would stretch on to the end of time.

A strange custom still kept in America even in cities,

Here in this age of plentiful newspapers.

Often the least reason there is for an old custom,

The harder it is to get rid of it.

Then the minister prayed.

It was a good generous prayer full of details.

He prayed for the church and the little children of the church,

The other churches in the village,

For the village itself,

For the country,

For the state,

For the state officials,

For the United States,

For the churches of the United States,

For congress,

For the president,

For government officials,

For poor sailors tossed on stormy seas,

For oppressed millions suffering under European monarchies and eastern dispositions,

For those who have light and good news and yet lack eyes to see and hear this,

For people on far lands and he ended with a plea,

That the words he was about to speak would be accepted as seeds planted in good soil,

Producing in good time a grateful harvest of good.

Amen.

There was a rustle of tresses and the standing congregation sat down.

The boy whose story this is did not enjoy the prayer.

He nearly endured it.

If he even managed that,

He was restless the whole time.

Without meaning to,

He kept mental track of the prayer's details.

Not because he was listening,

But because he knew the territory well and knew the minister's usual path across it.

And when some small bit of new material was mixed in,

His ear caught it and his whole nature resented it.

He considered additions unfair and downright sneaky.

In the middle of the prayer,

A fly landed on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his soul by calmly rubbing its hands together,

Hugging its head with its arms and polishing it so hard it looked like its head might come off,

Showing a thin thread of neck,

Then scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them down as if they were coattails,

Going through its full grooming as peacefully as if it knew it was perfectly safe.

And it was safe,

For as badly as Tom wanted to grab it,

He didn't dare.

He believed his soul would be destroyed instantly if he did such a thing during prayer.

But as the prayer reached its final stage,

Tom's hands began to curl and creep forward,

And the instant the Amen was spoken,

The fly became a prisoner of war.

His aunt caught him and made him let it go.

The minister announced his text and roamed on monotonously,

Through an argument so dull that little by little many heads began to nod,

Though it was an argument packed with endless fire and brimstone with the view of being saved that shrank them down to a group so small they hardly seemed worth saving.

Tom counted the pages of the sermon.

After church he always knew how many pages there had been,

Though he rarely knew anything else about what had been said.

Still,

This time was genuinely interesting for a little while.

The minister painted a grand and stirring picture of the gathering of the nations at the millennium,

When the lion and the lamb would lie down together and a little child would lead them.

But the feeling,

The lesson and the moral of the great scene were wasted on the boy.

He thought only about how important the leading character would look before all the watching nations.

His face brightened with the idea and he told himself he wished he could be that child,

If it was a tame lion.

Then he slipped back into suffering as the dry argument resumed.

Soon he remembered a treasure he had and took it out.

It was a large black beetle with fearsome jaws,

A pinch bug he called it,

And it was kept in a percussion cap box.

The first thing the beetle did was bite his finger.

A natural flick followed and the beetle went tumbling onto the aisle and landed on its back,

And Tom's hurt finger went straight into his mouth.

The beetle lay there kicking its helpless legs,

Unable to turn over.

Tom stared at it and longed to retrieve it,

But it was safely out of reach.

Other people who were interested in the sermon found relief in watching the beetle too,

And they stared at it as well.

Soon a wandering poodle came strolling along looking sad,

Made lazy by the soft summer air and the quiet of the tired of being confined,

Longing for something different.

His drooping tail lifted and wagged.

He examined the prize,

Walked around it,

Sniffed it from a safe distance,

Circled again,

Grew bolder and sniffed closer,

Then lifted his lip and made a cautious snap,

Just missing it.

Snapping again and again,

He began to enjoy the sport.

Lowering himself onto his belly with the beetle between his paws,

He kept experimenting.

At last he grew bold and then absent-minded.

His head nodded and little by little his chin sank as he touched the enemy.

The beetle seized it.

There was a sharp yelp and a quick flip of the poodle's head,

And the beetle sailed a couple of yards away and landed on its back again.

The nearby spectators trembled with quiet,

Inward joy.

Several faces disappeared behind fans and handkerchiefs,

And Tom was completely happy.

The dog looked foolish and probably felt it,

But he also felt resentment and craved revenge.

So he returned to the beetle and began a cautious attack again,

Jumping at it from different points around a circle,

Landing with his front paws within an inch of it,

Snapping ever closer with his teeth,

Whipping his head so hard his ears flapped.

But after a while he got tired again and tried to amuse himself with a fly but got no relief.

He followed an ant with his nose almost on the floor and soon tired of that.

He yawned,

Sighed,

Forgot the beetle entirely and sat down on it.

Then came a wild yelp of agony and the poodle went shooting up the aisle.

The yelps continued and so did the dog.

He raced across the church in front of the altar,

Flew down the other aisle,

Crossed in front of the doors,

Tore up the home stretch,

And as he went his misery grew until he seemed like a furry comet orbiting the room with the brightness and speed of light.

At last the frantic creature veered off course and sprang into its master's lap.

The man flung it out of the window and the cries of pain quickly faded and died out in the distance.

By now the whole church was red-faced and choking with suppressed laughter and the sermon had come to a complete standstill.

The sermon started again after a bit but it limped along awkwardly,

All chance of solemn power destroyed,

For even the most serious ideas were repeatedly greeted with muffled bursts of unholy laughter behind distant pew backs as if the poor preacher had just said something hilariously funny.

It was a real relief to see the entire congregation when the ordeal had ended and the blessing was spoken.

Tom Sawyer went home fairly cheerfully,

Thinking that there was at least something satisfying about worship when there was a little bit of variety in it.

He had only one sour thought,

He didn't mind the dog playing with his pinched pinch bag but he didn't think it was fear for the dog to carry it off.