A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

“AMERICANS for two-and-a-half and the money up! HEY?”

The Reverend winced, but said mildly:

“Yes–we are Americans.”

“Lord love you, you can just bet that’s what _I_ am,

every time! Put it there!”

He held out his Sahara of his palm, and the Reverend laid

his diminutive hand in it, and got so cordial a shake

that we heard his glove burst under it.

“Say, didn’t I put you up right?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Sho! I spotted you for MY kind the minute I heard

your clack. You been over here long?”

“About four months. Have you been over long?”

“LONG? Well, I should say so! Going on two YEARS,

by geeminy! Say, are you homesick?”

“No, I can’t say that I am. Are you?”

“Oh, HELL, yes!” This with immense enthusiasm.

The Reverend shrunk a little, in his clothes, and we

were aware, rather by instinct than otherwise, that he

was throwing out signals of distress to us; but we did

not interfere or try to succor him, for we were quite happy.

The young fellow hooked his arm into the Reverend’s, now,

with the confiding and grateful air of a waif who has

been longing for a friend, and a sympathetic ear,

and a chance to lisp once more the sweet accents of the

mother-tongue–and then he limbered up the muscles

of his mouth and turned himself loose–and with such a

relish! Some of his words were not Sunday-school words,

so I am obliged to put blanks where they occur.

“Yes indeedy! If _I_ ain’t an American there AIN’T

any Americans, that’s all. And when I heard you fellows

gassing away in the good old American language, I’m ——

if it wasn’t all I could do to keep from hugging you! My

tongue’s all warped with trying to curl it around these

——forsaken wind-galled nine-jointed German words here;

now I TELL you it’s awful good to lay it over a Christian

word once more and kind of let the old taste soak it.

I’m from western New York. My name is Cholley Adams.

I’m a student, you know. Been here going on two years.

I’m learning to be a horse-doctor! I LIKE that part of it,

you know, but ——these people, they won’t learn a fellow

in his own language, they make him learn in German; so before

I could tackle the horse-doctoring I had to tackle this

miserable language.

“First off, I thought it would certainly give me

the botts, but I don’t mind now. I’ve got it where the

hair’s short, I think; and dontchuknow, they made me

learn Latin, too. Now between you and me, I wouldn’t

give a ——for all the Latin that was ever jabbered;

and the first thing _I_ calculate to do when I get through,

is to just sit down and forget it. ‘Twon’t take me long,

and I don’t mind the time, anyway. And I tell you what!

the difference between school-teaching over yonder and

school-teaching over here–sho! WE don’t know anything

about it! Here you’re got to peg and peg and peg and there

just ain’t any let-up–and what you learn here, you’ve got

to KNOW, dontchuknow –or else you’ll have one of these

——spavined, spectacles, ring-boned, knock-kneed old

professors in your hair. I’ve been here long ENOUGH,

and I’m getting blessed tired of it, mind I TELL you.

The old man wrote me that he was coming over in June,

and said he’d take me home in August, whether I was done

with my education or not, but durn him, he didn’t come;

never said why; just sent me a hamper of Sunday-school

books, and told me to be good, and hold on a while.

I don’t take to Sunday-school books, dontchuknow–I

don’t hanker after them when I can get pie–but I

READ them, anyway, because whatever the old man tells

me to do, that’s the thing that I’m a-going to DO,

or tear something, you know. I buckled in and read

all those books, because he wanted me to; but that kind

of thing don’t excite ME, I like something HEARTY.

But I’m awful homesick. I’m homesick from ear-socket

to crupper, and from crupper to hock-joint; but it ain’t