Two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and I didn't see how I'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old Miss Watson pecking at you all the time.

I didn't want to go back no more.

I had stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now I took to it again because pap hadn't no objections.

It was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around.
But by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and I couldn't stand it.

I was all over welts.