In the late
summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across
the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there
were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was
clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops went by the
house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of
the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the leaves fell
early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and the
dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers
marching and afterward the road bare and white except for the leaves.
You don't know
about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures
of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr.
Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he
stretched, but mainly he told the truth.