reckoned maybe a lion was pretty near as unprincipled
though maybe not quite. He thought likely a lion
wouldn’t eat his own father, if he knowed which was
him, but reckoned he would eat his brother-in-law if
he was uncommon hungry, and eat his mother-in-law
any time. But RECKONING don’t settle nothing. You
can reckon till the cows come home, but that don’t
fetch you to no decision. So we give it up and let it
drop.
Generly it was very still in the Desert nights, but this
time there was music. A lot of other animals come to
dinner; sneaking yelpers that Tom allowed was jackals,
and roached-backed ones that he said was hyenas; and
all the whole biling of them kept up a racket all the
time. They made a picture in the moonlight that was
more different than any picture I ever see. We had a
line out and made fast to the top of a tree, and didn’t
stand no watch, but all turned in and slept; but I was
up two or three times to look down at the animals and
hear the music. It was like having a front seat at a
menagerie for nothing, which I hadn’t ever had before,
and so it seemed foolish to sleep and not make the
most of it; I mightn’t ever have such a chance
again.
We went a-fishing again in the early dawn, and then
lazied around all day in the deep shade on an island,
taking turn about to watch and see that none of the
animals come a-snooping around there after erronorts
for dinner. We was going to leave the next day, but
couldn’t, it was too lovely.
The day after, when we rose up toward the sky and
sailed off eastward, we looked back and watched that
place till it warn’t nothing but just a speck in the
Desert, and I tell you it was like saying good-bye to a
friend that you ain’t ever going to see any more.
Jim was thinking to himself, and at last he says:
“Mars Tom, we’s mos’ to de end er de Desert now,
I speck.”
“Why?”
“Well, hit stan’ to reason we is. You knows how
long we’s been a-skimmin’ over it. Mus’ be mos’ out
o’ san’. Hit’s a wonder to me dat it’s hilt out as long
as it has.”
“Shucks, there’s plenty sand, you needn’t worry.”
“Oh, I ain’t a-worryin’, Mars Tom, only wonderin’,
dat’s all. De Lord’s got plenty san’, I ain’t doubtin’
dat; but nemmine, He ain’t gwyne to WAS’E it jist on
dat account; en I allows dat dis Desert’s plenty big
enough now, jist de way she is, en you can’t spread
her out no mo’ ‘dout was’in’ san’.”
“Oh, go ‘long! we ain’t much more than fairly
STARTED across this Desert yet. The United States is a
pretty big country, ain’t it? Ain’t it, Huck?”
“Yes,” I says, “there ain’t no bigger one, I don’t
reckon.”
“Well,” he says, “this Desert is about the shape
of the United States, and if you was to lay it down on
top of the United States, it would cover the land of
the free out of sight like a blanket. There’d be a little
corner sticking out, up at Maine and away up north-
west, and Florida sticking out like a turtle’s tail, and
that’s all. We’ve took California away from the
Mexicans two or three years ago, so that part of the
Pacific coast is ours now, and if you laid the Great
Sahara down with her edge on the Pacific, she would
cover the United States and stick out past New York
six hundred miles into the Atlantic ocean.”
I say:
“Good land! have you got the documents for that,
Tom Sawyer?”
“Yes, and they’re right here, and I’ve been study-
ing them. You can look for yourself. From New
York to the Pacific is 2,600 miles. From one end of
the Great Desert to the other is 3,200. The United
States contains 3,600,000 square miles, the Desert
contains 4,162,000. With the Desert’s bulk you could
cover up every last inch of the United States, and in
under where the edges projected out, you could tuck