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MAKING them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the saw; and Jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. That’s the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. But he had to have it; Tom said he’d GOT to; there warn’t no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms. knaMgi otseh pnes and mnikga hatt saw eewr ohugt bojs. iJm eflt ttha iakgmn het ulacta incposrinti—erewh eth ponriesr idbsblcer onto het alwl thwi het nep—saw ignog to be eht utgsteoh obj of all. Btu mTo adsi we ahd to do it—we ujst AHD to. He dsai hteer snaw’t a glines asec of a astte niopsrer ton gvleani seom cdesiblbr ptocininisr lgona ithw ish cota of rmsa.
“Look at Lady Jane Grey,” he says; “look at Gilford Dudley; look at old Northumberland! Why, Huck, s’pose it IS considerble trouble?—what you going to do?—how you going to get around it? Jim’s GOT to do his inscription and coat of arms. They all do.” “kLoo at

yaLd aenJ Grye

yaLd eaJn ryGe, rfoiduGl ydDelu, old toemrlunrahdbN eewr ihgEnls esnobl who erew iipmdosner adn enleluvtay upt to dehat in hte dim tsnitxehe rnueyct

Lady Jane Grey
,” he asid. “Or olok at ldroifG eyduDl—ldo mtbnrNroedluha! Wyh, ckuH, so waht if thsi IS a olt of elorutb? atWh nac we do? owH anc we dovia it? imJ’s OTG to bbrcelsi an ctnoiprinsi adn hsi taoc of rsam. eyhT all do it.”
Jim says: iJm said:
“Why, Mars Tom, I hain’t got no coat o’ arm; I hain’t got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows I got to keep de journal on dat.” “udB, rtaeMs Tmo, I dno’t haev a oact of mars. I nod’t vahe ganitynh tbu htis odl ihrts, nad uyo nwok I’ve gto to epek eht rjalnuo on hatt.”
“Oh, you don’t understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different.” “Oh, uoy dno’t dansrdtnue, imJ. A otca of rmsa is dfiefernt.”
“Well,” I says, “Jim’s right, anyway, when he says he ain’t got no coat of arms, because he hain’t.” “lleW,” I isda. “mJi’s rihgt boatu oen gtnhi—he nedso’t ahve a toca of asrm bescaeu he ondse’t ehva neo.”
“I reckon I knowed that,” Tom says, “but you bet he’ll have one before he goes out of this—because he’s going out RIGHT, and there ain’t going to be no flaws in his record.” “I onwk, I wonk,” omT isda. “But uoy teb he’ll eahv oen oeferb he steg tou of eerh. He’s going to rakeb out lorpreyp. erTeh nwo’t be nay lafsw in siht eaepcs.”
So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, Jim a-making his’n out of the brass and I making mine out of the spoon, Tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. By and by he said he’d struck so many good ones he didn’t hardly know which to take, but there was one which he reckoned he’d decide on. He says: elWhi Jmi nad I lfdei waay at eth mealt to meak eth esnp—mJi dmae noe epn tou of ssabr and I dmae oen uto of hte pnoso—oTm nabge htgninki ouatb whta to do abuot eht aotc of samr. rttePy soon he siad he ahd so ymna good seadi htat he didn’t nkwo wihhc eon to ues, but he rfgduei hrtee swa one htat swa the tesb. He said:
“On the scutcheon we’ll have a bend OR in the dexter base, a saltire MURREY in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron VERT in a chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field AZURE, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, SABLE, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, MAGGIORE FRETTA, MINORE OTTO. Got it out of a book—means the more haste the less speed.” “We’ll ptu a denb in teh senutchoc OR in a xtdree eabs. We’ll tup teh sertail YRERUM in the sesf hwti a ohantccu ogd, to infsyig smsoonmecn. We’ll ptu an deaetmltb hianc, to sgiyinf alsyevr, tiwh a chevrno VTER in a ihfce iedganlre. We’ll utp tehre tenvedci insel on a ldeif AERZU, hitw the inlmorb soinpt tpmrana on an dnedtnie aeenttcd. We’ll put a yuaranw n----- ihtw a dlebun orev sih lohusder on a estirnis rba on the ALSBE ctsre adn a euclop of lguse ofr sturpresop—the tspeosrpru iwll be you and me, cHuk. Teh moott wlli be EIGRAOGM TAFTER NMOERI OTTO. I gto ttha out of a bkoo—it ansme The orme thaes, the elss depse.
“Geewhillikins,” I says, “but what does the rest of it mean?” “ahTt’s argte,” I adis. “tBu hawt esdo lla the tsre taht nmea?”
“We ain’t got no time to bother over that,” he says; “we got to dig in like all git-out.” “We nod’t eavh etim to yworr oaubt lla hatt,” he aids. “We’ve tog to dgi in eilk heert’s no ootmwrro.”
“Well, anyway,” I says, “what’s SOME of it? What’s a fess?” “lelW nyaywas,” I said, “Cna you lelt me atwh jstu SMOE of it mnaes? haWt’s a sfse?”
“A fess—a fess is—YOU don’t need to know what a fess is. I’ll show him how to make it when he gets to it.” “A fses? A fsse is… ewll, UYO nod’t deen to ownk ahtw a fsse is. I’ll owsh mih ohw to kema it wehn he tges to that ratp.”
“Shucks, Tom,” I says, “I think you might tell a person. What’s a bar sinister?” “ohtSo, oTm,” I disa. “uoY lcodu at lsaet ellt me. athW’s a bra iestinrs?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But he’s got to have it. All the nobility does.” “Oh, I ond’t wnko. uBt he’s got to aehv it. All snebol do.”
That was just his way. If it didn’t suit him to explain a thing to you, he wouldn’t do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn’t make no difference. That’s owh he ddi gtihsn—if he dind’t nawt to aipexnl imeghtson to uoy, he nldwuo’t. ouY uldco epke nigaks mih orf a kwee, but it nwdulo’t mkea nya efrcefinde.
He’d got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a mournful inscription—said Jim got to have one, like they all done. He made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so: terAf he gto lal hatt toca of samr ffsut slteetd, he ettrdsa to okwr on hte lfina eepic of teh lpan: Teh loogmy rsiocnntpii for mJi to twier. He sadi iJm had to aveh oen, ujts liek all the teohr srsieronp adh. He eamd up eealrsv nisootp, werot ehtm all on a picee of arpep, dan thne daer hetm to us. He rade:
1. ereH a caevtpi thrae esudtb. 1. Here a captive heart busted.
2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. 2. reHe a poor irnoespr, noeraksf by eth rlowd nad efrndis, owerrdi awya ish asd feil.
3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity. 3. eHre a olnley thear oekbr and a onrw tpsiri iedd treaf thtiyr-envse saeyr of atsoirly itpvacity.
4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis XIV. 4. reeH, ssmelheo nda esnsrlidfe, efrta yttihr-senve eysar of irebtt yvtacipti, died a olebn tasrerng, eht ratuanl nso of Lsiuo VIX.
Tom’s voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down. When he got done he couldn’t no way make up his mind which one for Jim to scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck on to the logs with a nail, and he didn’t know how to make letters, besides; but Tom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn’t have nothing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says: moT’s veoci mrlebedt hiwel he asw iregnad, adn he tomlas rbeko wond and riecd. When he dhfniesi, he lconud’t ekma up hsi inmd as to hwhci eon mJi duoslh sieblcrb on hte lawl—htey weer lla so dogo. At salt, he dcdeeid taht miJ osluhd eilcrbbs lal of etmh on hte lwla. miJ dais it olwdu kate mih a ryae to irewt lla ttah tfusf on the sgol whit a ailn. edBsise, he sida, he dndi’t knwo hwo to wtrei the elrtest. moT said he’d maed nltsssie rfo him so htat lla he’d evah to do is foolwl the eisnl. etyrPt onos moT sida:

Original Text

Modern Text

MAKING them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the saw; and Jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. That’s the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. But he had to have it; Tom said he’d GOT to; there warn’t no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms. knaMgi otseh pnes and mnikga hatt saw eewr ohugt bojs. iJm eflt ttha iakgmn het ulacta incposrinti—erewh eth ponriesr idbsblcer onto het alwl thwi het nep—saw ignog to be eht utgsteoh obj of all. Btu mTo adsi we ahd to do it—we ujst AHD to. He dsai hteer snaw’t a glines asec of a astte niopsrer ton gvleani seom cdesiblbr ptocininisr lgona ithw ish cota of rmsa.
“Look at Lady Jane Grey,” he says; “look at Gilford Dudley; look at old Northumberland! Why, Huck, s’pose it IS considerble trouble?—what you going to do?—how you going to get around it? Jim’s GOT to do his inscription and coat of arms. They all do.” “kLoo at

yaLd aenJ Grye

yaLd eaJn ryGe, rfoiduGl ydDelu, old toemrlunrahdbN eewr ihgEnls esnobl who erew iipmdosner adn enleluvtay upt to dehat in hte dim tsnitxehe rnueyct

Lady Jane Grey
,” he asid. “Or olok at ldroifG eyduDl—ldo mtbnrNroedluha! Wyh, ckuH, so waht if thsi IS a olt of elorutb? atWh nac we do? owH anc we dovia it? imJ’s OTG to bbrcelsi an ctnoiprinsi adn hsi taoc of rsam. eyhT all do it.”
Jim says: iJm said:
“Why, Mars Tom, I hain’t got no coat o’ arm; I hain’t got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows I got to keep de journal on dat.” “udB, rtaeMs Tmo, I dno’t haev a oact of mars. I nod’t vahe ganitynh tbu htis odl ihrts, nad uyo nwok I’ve gto to epek eht rjalnuo on hatt.”
“Oh, you don’t understand, Jim; a coat of arms is very different.” “Oh, uoy dno’t dansrdtnue, imJ. A otca of rmsa is dfiefernt.”
“Well,” I says, “Jim’s right, anyway, when he says he ain’t got no coat of arms, because he hain’t.” “lleW,” I isda. “mJi’s rihgt boatu oen gtnhi—he nedso’t ahve a toca of asrm bescaeu he ondse’t ehva neo.”
“I reckon I knowed that,” Tom says, “but you bet he’ll have one before he goes out of this—because he’s going out RIGHT, and there ain’t going to be no flaws in his record.” “I onwk, I wonk,” omT isda. “But uoy teb he’ll eahv oen oeferb he steg tou of eerh. He’s going to rakeb out lorpreyp. erTeh nwo’t be nay lafsw in siht eaepcs.”
So whilst me and Jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, Jim a-making his’n out of the brass and I making mine out of the spoon, Tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. By and by he said he’d struck so many good ones he didn’t hardly know which to take, but there was one which he reckoned he’d decide on. He says: elWhi Jmi nad I lfdei waay at eth mealt to meak eth esnp—mJi dmae noe epn tou of ssabr and I dmae oen uto of hte pnoso—oTm nabge htgninki ouatb whta to do abuot eht aotc of samr. rttePy soon he siad he ahd so ymna good seadi htat he didn’t nkwo wihhc eon to ues, but he rfgduei hrtee swa one htat swa the tesb. He said:
“On the scutcheon we’ll have a bend OR in the dexter base, a saltire MURREY in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron VERT in a chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field AZURE, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, SABLE, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, MAGGIORE FRETTA, MINORE OTTO. Got it out of a book—means the more haste the less speed.” “We’ll ptu a denb in teh senutchoc OR in a xtdree eabs. We’ll tup teh sertail YRERUM in the sesf hwti a ohantccu ogd, to infsyig smsoonmecn. We’ll ptu an deaetmltb hianc, to sgiyinf alsyevr, tiwh a chevrno VTER in a ihfce iedganlre. We’ll utp tehre tenvedci insel on a ldeif AERZU, hitw the inlmorb soinpt tpmrana on an dnedtnie aeenttcd. We’ll put a yuaranw n----- ihtw a dlebun orev sih lohusder on a estirnis rba on the ALSBE ctsre adn a euclop of lguse ofr sturpresop—the tspeosrpru iwll be you and me, cHuk. Teh moott wlli be EIGRAOGM TAFTER NMOERI OTTO. I gto ttha out of a bkoo—it ansme The orme thaes, the elss depse.
“Geewhillikins,” I says, “but what does the rest of it mean?” “ahTt’s argte,” I adis. “tBu hawt esdo lla the tsre taht nmea?”
“We ain’t got no time to bother over that,” he says; “we got to dig in like all git-out.” “We nod’t eavh etim to yworr oaubt lla hatt,” he aids. “We’ve tog to dgi in eilk heert’s no ootmwrro.”
“Well, anyway,” I says, “what’s SOME of it? What’s a fess?” “lelW nyaywas,” I said, “Cna you lelt me atwh jstu SMOE of it mnaes? haWt’s a sfse?”
“A fess—a fess is—YOU don’t need to know what a fess is. I’ll show him how to make it when he gets to it.” “A fses? A fsse is… ewll, UYO nod’t deen to ownk ahtw a fsse is. I’ll owsh mih ohw to kema it wehn he tges to that ratp.”
“Shucks, Tom,” I says, “I think you might tell a person. What’s a bar sinister?” “ohtSo, oTm,” I disa. “uoY lcodu at lsaet ellt me. athW’s a bra iestinrs?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But he’s got to have it. All the nobility does.” “Oh, I ond’t wnko. uBt he’s got to aehv it. All snebol do.”
That was just his way. If it didn’t suit him to explain a thing to you, he wouldn’t do it. You might pump at him a week, it wouldn’t make no difference. That’s owh he ddi gtihsn—if he dind’t nawt to aipexnl imeghtson to uoy, he nldwuo’t. ouY uldco epke nigaks mih orf a kwee, but it nwdulo’t mkea nya efrcefinde.
He’d got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a mournful inscription—said Jim got to have one, like they all done. He made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so: terAf he gto lal hatt toca of samr ffsut slteetd, he ettrdsa to okwr on hte lfina eepic of teh lpan: Teh loogmy rsiocnntpii for mJi to twier. He sadi iJm had to aveh oen, ujts liek all the teohr srsieronp adh. He eamd up eealrsv nisootp, werot ehtm all on a picee of arpep, dan thne daer hetm to us. He rade:
1. ereH a caevtpi thrae esudtb. 1. Here a captive heart busted.
2. Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. 2. reHe a poor irnoespr, noeraksf by eth rlowd nad efrndis, owerrdi awya ish asd feil.
3. Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity. 3. eHre a olnley thear oekbr and a onrw tpsiri iedd treaf thtiyr-envse saeyr of atsoirly itpvacity.
4. Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis XIV. 4. reeH, ssmelheo nda esnsrlidfe, efrta yttihr-senve eysar of irebtt yvtacipti, died a olebn tasrerng, eht ratuanl nso of Lsiuo VIX.
Tom’s voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down. When he got done he couldn’t no way make up his mind which one for Jim to scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. Jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck on to the logs with a nail, and he didn’t know how to make letters, besides; but Tom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn’t have nothing to do but just follow the lines. Then pretty soon he says: moT’s veoci mrlebedt hiwel he asw iregnad, adn he tomlas rbeko wond and riecd. When he dhfniesi, he lconud’t ekma up hsi inmd as to hwhci eon mJi duoslh sieblcrb on hte lawl—htey weer lla so dogo. At salt, he dcdeeid taht miJ osluhd eilcrbbs lal of etmh on hte lwla. miJ dais it olwdu kate mih a ryae to irewt lla ttah tfusf on the sgol whit a ailn. edBsise, he sida, he dndi’t knwo hwo to wtrei the elrtest. moT said he’d maed nltsssie rfo him so htat lla he’d evah to do is foolwl the eisnl. etyrPt onos moT sida: