of Arkansaw, and my sister Mary Ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and Bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and Tom and Mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died I took what there was left, because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was how I come to be here.  So they said I could have a home there as long as I wanted it.  Then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and I went to bed with Buck, and when I waked up in the morning, drat it all, I had forgot what my name was. So I laid there about an hour trying to think, and when Buck waked up I says: “Can you spell, Buck?” “Yes,” he says. “I bet you can't spell my name,” says I. “I bet you what you dare I can,” says he. “All right,” says I, “go ahead.” “G-e-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n--there now,” he says. “Well,” says I, “you done it, but I didn't think you could.  It ain't no slouch of a name to spell--right off without studying.” I set it down, private, because somebody might want _me_ to spell it next, and so I wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like I was used to it. It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too.  I hadn't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much style.  It didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town. There warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them.  There was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they call Spanish-brown, same as they do in town.  They had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. Ther