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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Mark Twain

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“Meddling with who?” Tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised.

 

“I know; but you don’t want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door.”

 

“Good land!” I says; “why, there ain’t no necessity for it. And what would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?”

 

“I laid out a hunk of it,” I says, “on a piece of a corn-pone.”

 

We could see pretty well now. Tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says:

 

When the King awoke in the morning, the women were gone.

 

It was not till the end of this reign (Henry VIII.) that any salads, carrots, turnips, or other edible roots were produced in England.  The little of these vegetables that was used was formerly imported from Holland and Flanders.  Queen Catherine, when she wanted a salad, was obliged to despatch a messenger thither on purpose.—Hume’s History of England, vol. iii. p. 314.

 

“There, there, dear heart, say no more, I am content.  Give me the eightpence, and hold thy peace about the matter.”

 

“Long live Foo-foo the First, King of the Mooncalves!” followed by hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter.

 

“Will you trust in me?  Peace! and forbear to worsen our chances with dangerous speech.  What God wills, will happen; thou canst not hurry it, thou canst not alter it; therefore wait, and be patient—’twill be time enow to rail or rejoice when what is to happen has happened.” {1}

 

No one said anything; all watched the clock in a deep stillness which was impressive. When four and a half minutes were gone the blacksmith gave a sudden gasp and clapped his hands upon his heart, saying, “Give me breath! Give me room!” and began to sink down. The crowd surged back, no one offering to support him, and he fell lumbering to the ground and was dead. The people stared at him, then at Satan, then at one another; and their lips moved, but no words came. Then Satan said:

 

“I said: 'Smoke along, then, if it is the custom, though I think that the conceding of a privilege to a burglar which is denied to a bishop is a conspicuous sign of the looseness of the times. But waiving all that, what business have you to be entering this house in this furtive and clandestine way, without ringing the burglar alarm?'

 

A gust of thankfulness rose in my breast, but a doubt checked it before it could issue in words, and I said, “But—but—we have seen that future life—seen it in its actuality, and so—”

 

He stopped there, as if that settled the matter. I was sorry, for at that time I had but a dim idea of what the Moral Sense was. I merely knew that we were proud of having it, and when he talked like that about it, it wounded me, and I felt as a girl feels who thinks her dearest finery is being admired and then overhears strangers making fun of it. For a while we were all silent, and I, for one, was depressed. Then Satan began to chat again, and soon he was sparkling along in such a cheerful and vivacious vein that my spirits rose once more. He told some very cunning things that put us in a gale of laughter; and when he was telling about the time that Samson tied the torches to the foxes' tails and set them loose in the Philistines' corn, and Samson sitting on the fence slapping his thighs and laughing, with the tears running down his cheeks, and lost his balance and fell off the fence, the memory of that picture got him to laughing, too, and we did have a most lovely and jolly time. By and by he said:

 

“There has never been a just one, never an honorable one—on the part of the instigator of the war. I can see a million years ahead, and this rule will never change in so many as half a dozen instances. The loud little handful—as usual—will shout for the war. The pulpit will—warily and cautiously—object—at first; the great, big, dull bulk of the nation will rub its sleepy eyes and try to make out why there should be a war, and will say, earnestly and indignantly, “It is unjust and dishonorable, and there is no necessity for it.” Then the handful will shout louder. A few fair men on the other side will argue and reason against the war with speech and pen, and at first will have a hearing and be applauded; but it will not last long; those others will outshout them, and presently the anti-war audiences will thin out and lose popularity. Before long you will see this curious thing: the speakers stoned from the platform, and free speech strangled by hordes of furious men who in their secret hearts are still at one with those stoned speakers—as earlier—but do not dare to say so. And now the whole nation—pulpit and all—will take up the war-cry, and shout itself hoarse, and mob any honest man who ventures to open his mouth; and presently such mouths will cease to open. Next the statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting the blame upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of those conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse to examine any refutations of them; and thus he will by and by convince himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception.”

 

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