Mark Twain, A Biography - Volume I, Part 1: 1835-1866 | Page 9

the remainder of the years spent in Florida, was
often in later days pointed out as Mark Twain's birthplace. It missed
that distinction by a few months, though its honor was sufficient in
having sheltered his early childhood.--[This house is no longer standing.
When it was torn down several years ago, portions of it were carried off
and manufactured into souvenirs. Mark Twain himself disclaimed it as
his birthplace, and once wrote on a photograph of it: "No, it is too
stylish, it is not my birthplace."]

IV
BEGINNING A LONG JOURNEY
It was not a robust childhood. The new baby managed to go through the
winter--a matter of comment among the family and neighbors. Added
strength came, but slowly; "Little Sam," as they called him, was always
delicate during those early years.
It was a curious childhood, full of weird, fantastic impressions and
contradictory influences, stimulating alike to the imagination and that
embryo philosophy of life which begins almost with infancy. John
Clemens seldom devoted any time to the company of his children. He
looked after their comfort and mental development as well as he could,
and gave advice on occasion. He bought a book now and
then--sometimes a picture-book-- and subscribed for Peter Parley's
Magazine, a marvel of delight to the older children, but he did not join
in their amusements, and he rarely, or never, laughed. Mark Twain did
not remember ever having seen or heard his father laugh. The problem
of supplying food was a somber one to John Clemens; also, he was
working on a perpetual-motion machine at this period, which absorbed
his spare time, and, to the inventor at least, was not a mirthful
occupation. Jane Clemens was busy, too. Her sense of humor did not
die, but with added cares and years her temper as well as her features
became sharper, and it was just as well to be fairly out of range when
she was busy with her employments.
Little Sam's companions were his brothers and sisters, all older than
himself: Orion, ten years his senior, followed by Pamela and Margaret
at intervals of two and three years, then by Benjamin, a kindly little lad
whose gentle life was chiefly devoted to looking after the baby brother,
three years his junior. But in addition to these associations, there were
the still more potent influences Of that day and section, the intimate,
enveloping institution of slavery, the daily companionship of the slaves.
All the children of that time were fond of the negroes and confided in
them. They would, in fact, have been lost without such protection and
company.

It was Jennie, the house-girl, and Uncle Ned, a man of all work--
apparently acquired with the improved prospects--who were in real
charge of the children and supplied them with entertainment.
Wonderful entertainment it was. That was a time of visions and dreams,
small. gossip and superstitions. Old tales were repeated over and over,
with adornments and improvements suggested by immediate events. At
evening the Clemens children, big and little, gathered about the great
open fireplace while Jennie and Uncle Ned told tales and hair-lifting
legends. Even a baby of two or three years could follow the drift of this
primitive telling and would shiver and cling close with the horror and
delight of its curdling thrill. The tales always began with "Once 'pon a
time," and one of them was the story of the "Golden Arm" which the
smallest listener would one day repeat more elaborately to wider
audiences in many lands. Briefly it ran as follows:
"Once 'Pon a time there was a man, and he had a wife, and she had a'
arm of pure gold; and she died, and they buried her in the graveyard;
and one night her husband went and dug her up and cut off her golden
arm and tuck it home; and one night a ghost all in white come to him;
and she was his wife; and she says:
"W-h-a-r-r's my golden arm? W-h-a-r-r's my golden arm? W-h-a-r-r's
my g-o-l-den arm?"
As Uncle Ned repeated these blood-curdling questions he would look
first one and then another of his listeners in the eyes, with his bands
drawn up in front of his breast, his fingers turned out and crooked like
claws, while he bent with each question closer to the shrinking forms
before him. The tone was sepulchral, with awful pause as if waiting
each time for a reply. The culmination came with a pounce on one of
the group, a shake of the shoulders, and a shout of:
"YOU'VE got it!' and she tore him all to pieces!"
And the children would shout "Lordy!" and look furtively over their
shoulders, fearing to see a woman in white against the black wall; but,
instead, only gloomy, shapeless shadows