“In 1843 my father caught me in a lie.  It is not this fact that gives me the date, but the house we lived in.  We were there only a year.”

We may believe it was the active result of that lie that fixed his memory of the place, for his father seldom punished him.  When he did, it was a thorough and satisfactory performance.

It was about the period of moving into the new house (1844) that the Tom Sawyer days—­that is to say, the boyhood of Samuel Clemens—­may be said to have begun.  Up to that time he was just Little Sam, a child—­wild, and mischievous, often exasperating, but still a child—­a delicate little lad to be worried over, mothered, or spanked and put to bed.  Now, at nine, he had acquired health, with a sturdy ability to look out for himself, as boys will, in a community like that, especially where the family is rather larger than the income and there is still a younger child to claim a mother’s protecting care.  So “Sam,” as they now called him, “grew up” at nine, and was full of knowledge for his years.  Not that he was old in spirit or manner—­he was never that, even to his death—­but he had learned a great number of things, mostly of a kind not acquired at school.

They were not always of a pleasant kind; they were likely to be of a kind startling to a boy, even terrifying.  Once Little Sam—­he was still Little Sam, then—­saw an old man shot down on the main street, at noonday.  He saw them carry him home, lay him on the bed, and spread on his breast an open family Bible which looked as heavy as an anvil.  He though, if he could only drag that great burden away, the poor, old dying man would not breathe so heavily.  He saw a young emigrant stabbed with a bowie-knife by a drunken comrade, and noted the spurt of life-blood that followed; he saw two young men try to kill their uncle, one holding him while the other snapped repeatedly an Allen revolver which failed to go off.  Then there was the drunken rowdy who proposed to raid the “Welshman’s” house one dark threatening night—­he saw that, too.  A widow and her one daughter lived there, and the ruffian woke the whole village with his coarse challenges and obscenities.  Sam Clemens and a boon companion, John Briggs, went up there to look and listen.  The man was at the gate, and the warren were invisible in the shadow of the dark porch.  The boys heard the elder woman’s voice warning the man that she had a loaded gun, and that she would kill him if he stayed where he was.  He replied with a ribald tirade, and she warned that she would count ten-that if he remained a second longer she would fire.  She began slowly and counted up to five, with him laughing and jeering.  At six he grew silent, but he did not go.  She counted on:  seven—­eight—­nine—­The boys watching from the dark roadside felt their hearts stop.  There was a long pause, then the final count, followed a second later by a gush of flame.  The man dropped, his breast riddled.  At the same instant the thunderstorm that had been gathering broke loose.  The boys fled wildly, believing that Satan himself had arrived to claim the lost soul.