The Square in Hannibal, where stood the school of Mr. Cross, was a grove in those days, with plum-trees and hazel-bushes and grape-vines.  When spring came, the children gathered flowers at recess, climbed trees, and swung in the vines.  It was a happy place enough, only—­it was school.  To Sam Clemens, the spelling-bee every Friday afternoon was the one thing that made it worth while.  Sam was a leader at spelling—­it was one of his gifts—­he could earn compliments even from Mr. Cross, whose name, it would seem, was regarded as descriptive.  Once in a moment of inspiration Sam wrote on his late: 

      “Cross by name and Cross by nature,
       Cross jumped over an Irish potato.”

John Briggs thought this a great effort, and urged the author to write it on the blackboard at noon.  Sam hesitated.

“Oh, pshaw!” said John, “I wouldn’t be afraid to do it.”

“I dare you to do it,” said Sam.

This was enough.  While Mr. Cross was at dinner John wrote in a large hand the fine couplet.  The teacher returned and called the school to order.  He looked at the blackboard, then, searchingly, at John Briggs.  The handwriting was familiar.

“Did you do that?” he asked, ominously.

It was a time for truth.

“Yes, sir,” said John.

“Come here!” And John came and paid handsomely for his publishing venture.  Sam Clemens expected that the author would be called for next; but perhaps Mr. Cross had exhausted himself on John.  Sam did not often escape.  His back kept fairly warm from one “flailing” to the next.

Yet he usually wore one of the two medals offered in that school—­the medal for spelling.  Once he lost it by leaving the first “r” out of February.  Laura Hawkins was on the floor against him, and he was a gallant boy.  If it had only been Huck Brown he would have spelled that and all the other months backward, to show off.  There were moments of triumph that almost made school worth while; the rest of the time it was prison and servitude.

But then one day came freedom.  Judge Clemens, who, in spite of misfortune, had never lost faith in humanity, indorsed a large note for a neighbor, and was obliged to pay it.  Once more all his property was taken away.  Only a few scanty furnishings were rescued from the wreck.  A St. Louis cousin saved the home, but the Clemens family could not afford to live in it.  They moved across the street and joined housekeeping with another family.

Judge Clemens had one hope left.  He was a candidate for the clerkship of the surrogate court, a good office, and believed his election sure.  His business misfortunes had aroused wide sympathy.  He took no chances, however, and made a house-to house canvas of the district, regardless of the weather, probably undermining his health.  He was elected by a large majority, and rejoiced that his worries were now at an end.  They were, indeed, over.  At the end of February he rode to the county seat to take the oath of office.  He returned through a drenching storm and reached home nearly frozen.  Pneumonia set in, and a few days later he was dying.  His one comfort now was the Tennessee land.  He said it would make them all rich and happy.  Once he whispered: