down and mournin’, en de tears runnin’ down.

My, but I wuz mad! I was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis’ den — it was a do’ dat open innerds — jis’ den, ’long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-blam! — en my lan’, de chile never move’! My breff mos’ hop outer me; en I feel so — so — I doan’ know how I feel. I crope out, all a-tremblin’, en crope aroun’ en open de do’ easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof’ en still, en all uv a sudden I says pow! Jis’ as loud as I could yell. She never budge! Oh, Huck, I bust out a-cryin’ en grab her up in my arms, en say, ’Oh, de po’ little thing!

De Lord God Amighty fogive po’ ole Jim,