The Adventures of Tom Sawyer

As a young and budding spanko, I found myself -- much in the same vein as with the aforementioned childhood tale of Peter Rabbit -- quite thoroughly fascinated with another classic tale, this one of American origin, quite a bit longer, and absolutely rampant with the myriad adventures of rather naughty young heros and heroines.

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,
by the ever-entertaining and thought-provoking Mark Twain, details quite a few instances, actually, of Tom's encounters with implement-wielding adults. In the very First Chapter, Tom finds himself at the mercy of his Aunt, after having been caught sneaking jam in the closet...

Then later (Chapter 6) Tom runs amok with the schoolmaster, having decided on a whim of folly to tell the truth about why he'd been late for class...

But my absolute favorite part (all of Chapter 20), which I must detail for you here, is when it is actually our heroine, the young Becky Thatcher, who commits the major offense, and Tom who becomes her true hero : ) The build-up is intense, the emotions within our poor young girl ever so true to my heart, and the writing superb -- please enjoy, and if you get the chance to pick up the book, it really is a very entertaining read! :D

Excerpt from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain:

Chapter XX:

There was something about Aunt Polly's manner, when she kissed Tom, that swept away his low spirits and made him light-hearted and happy again. He started to school and had the luck of coming upon Becky Thatcher at the head of Meadow Lane. His mood always determined his manner. Without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said:

"I acted mighty mean to-day, Becky, and I'm so sorry. I won't ever, ever do that way again, as long as ever I live -- please make up, won't you?"

The girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:

"I'll thank you to keep yourself to yourself, Mr. Thomas Sawyer. I'll never speak to you again."

She tossed her head and passed on. Tom was so stunned that he had not even presence of mind enough to say "Who cares, Miss Smarty?" until the right time to say it had gone by. So he said nothing. But he was in a fine rage, nevertheless. He moped into the schoolyard wishing she were a boy, and imagining how he would trounce her if she were. He presently encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. She hurled one in return, and the angry breach was complete. It seemed to Becky, in her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to "take in," she was so impatient to see Tom flogged for the injured spelling-book. If she had had any lingering notion of exposing Alfred Temple, Tom's offensive fling had driven it entirely away.

Poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself. The master, Mr. Dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied ambition. The darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village schoolmaster. Every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed himself in it at times when no classes were reciting. He kept that book under lock and key. There was not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a glimpse of it, but the chance never came. Every boy and girl had a theory about the nature of that book; but no two theories were alike, and there was no way of getting at the facts in the case. Now, as Becky was passing by the desk, which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in the lock! It was a precious moment. She glanced around; found herself alone, and the next instant she had the book in her hands. The title-page -- Professor Somebody's Anatomy -- carried no information to her mind; so she began to turn the leaves. She came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece -- a human figure, stark naked. At that moment a shadow fell on the page and Tom Sawyer stepped in at the door and caught a glimpse of the picture. Becky snatched at the book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. She thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with shame and vexation.

"Tom Sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a person and look at what they're looking at."

"How could I know you was looking at anything?"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Sawyer; you know you're going to tell on me, and oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! I'll be whipped, and I never was whipped in school."

Then she stamped her little foot and said:

"Be so mean if you want to! I know something that's going to happen. You just wait and you'll see! Hateful, hateful, hateful!" -- and she flung out of the house with a new explosion of crying.

Tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. Presently he said to himself:

"What a curious kind of a fool a girl is! Never been licked in school! Shucks! What's a licking! That's just like a girl -- they're so thin-skinned and chicken-hearted. Well, of course I ain't going to tell old Dobbins on this little fool, because there's other ways of getting even on her, that ain't so mean; but what of it? Old Dobbins will ask who it was tore his book. Nobody'll answer. Then he'll do just the way he always does -- ask first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the right girl he'll know it, without any telling. Girls' faces always tell on them. They ain't got any backbone. She'll get licked. Well, it's a kind of a tight place for Becky Thatcher, because there ain't any way out of it." Tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added: "All right, though; she'd like to see me in just such a fix -- let her sweat it out!"

Tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. In a few moments the master arrived and school "took in." Tom did not feel a strong interest in his studies. Every time he stole a glance at the girls' side of the room Becky's face troubled him. Considering all things, he did not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. He could get up no exultation that was really worthy the name. Presently the spelling-book discovery was made, and Tom's mind was entirely full of his own matters for a while after that. Becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings. She did not expect that Tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right. The denial only seemed to make the thing worse for Tom. Becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not certain. When the worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on Alfred Temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still -- because, said she to herself, "he'll tell about me tearing the picture sure. I wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!"

Tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly upset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout -- he had denied it for form's sake and because it was custom, and had stuck to the denial from principle.

A whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air was drowsy with the hum of study. By and by, Mr. Dobbins straightened himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book, but seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it. Most of the pupils glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched his movements with intent eyes. Mr. Dobbins fingered his book absently for a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read! Tom shot a glance at Becky. He had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun levelled at its head. Instantly he forgot his quarrel with her. Quick -- something must be done! done in a flash, too! But the very imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention. Good! -- he had an inspiration! He would run and snatch the book, spring through the door and fly. But his resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was lost -- the master opened the volume. If Tom only had the wasted opportunity back again! Too late. There was no help for Becky now, he said. The next moment the master faced the school. Every eye sank under his gaze. There was that in it which smote even the innocent with fear. There was silence while one might count ten -- the master was gathering his wrath. Then he spoke: "Who tore this book?"

There was not a sound. One could have heard a pin drop. The stillness continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.

"Benjamin Rogers, did you tear this book?"

A denial. Another pause.

"Joseph Harper, did you?"

Another denial. Tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the slow torture of these proceedings. The master scanned the ranks of boys -- considered a while, then turned to the girls:

"Amy Lawrence?"

A shake of the head.

"Gracie Miller?"

The same sign.

"Susan Harper, did you do this?"

Another negative. The next girl was Becky Thatcher. Tom was trembling from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the situation.

"Rebecca Thatcher" [Tom glanced at her face -- it was white with terror] -- "did you tear -- no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in appeal] -- "did you tear this book?"

A thought shot like lightning through Tom's brain. He sprang to his feet and shouted -- "I done it!"

The school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. Tom stood a moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that shone upon him out of poor Becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred floggings. Inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even Mr. Dobbins had ever administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed -- for he knew who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either.

Tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against Alfred Temple; for with shame and repentance Becky had told him all, not forgetting her own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon, to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with Becky's latest words lingering dreamily in his ear --

"Tom, how could you be so noble!"...

:D Thank you for reading!

Peter Rabbit Gets the Switch

Recently, I had the pleasure of breakfasting with a couple of lovely kinky lady friends of mine, including the delightful Miss Pink, of The Pink Report :D

One of them happened to be very fond of blueberries (a delightful breakfast food), and happened to mention the fact that she had just planted new berry bushes in her back yard.

What does this have to do with spanking, you might ask?

Well I'll tell you -- this is how my mind works (although I neglected to tell my lady friends at the time, as the conversation moved on to other matters) -- upon entertaining the thought of blueberry bushes, I was reminded, right there at the breakfast table, of the childhood cautionary tale, Peter Rabbit. Why? Because this is the same tale that always comes to mind, whenever I stumble upon the thought of any type of berry-picking... :D You'll understand once I explain a little further:

Peter Rabbit and his three sisters, Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail, are told by their mother that they can go berry-picking down the lane, but to stay away from Mr. McGreggor's farm, because of the dangers lurking there for young rabbits such as themselves. Once she'd buttoned up their jackets and sent them on their way, "Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries. But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight-away to Mr. McGreggor's garden." (Why does it always have to be the boy who is the naughty one??)

According to Beatrix Potter, during this first visit to McGreggor's farm, Peter gorges himself on the farmer's crops, and then promptly gets himself noticed by the farmer himself, who chases the young rabbit relentlessly through the farm, causing Peter to lose not only both of his tiny shoes, but his blue jacket as well.

Narrowly escaping, he goes hopping back home to his mother, who puts him to bed without any supper for losing his clothes, coming home so late, and, she suspects, for going into Mr. McGreggor's garden.

The real fun begins, however, the next day, when Peter's cousin Benjamin convinces him to go back into the garden, in order to retrieve Peter's jacket and shoes. While there, the two rabbits get themselves trapped under a basket with Mr. McGreggor's cat, who knows they're there, staked out on top, waiting for them to try to get out. Meanwhile, Peter's mother goes to find Benjamin's father, a formidable gentleman rabbit complete with his very own waistcoat and pipe. Upon hearing that both young boys have gone missing, Benjamin's father decides to go looking for them himself, with a pretty good idea of where they might be...

Lo and behold, he finds them, and after epically fighting away the cat in a hare-raising large-rabbit vs. fussy-feline battle, proceeds to dish out his displeasure at the boys' foolish actions.

As you can watch for yourself here,
the no-nonsense, fatherly gentlemen decides to punish his own son first, and even in this lovely animated childrens' tale, we hear the switch biting down through the air, eliciting cries from Benjamin as he feels each sting. Peter's switching is shown on screen, and, although a little quicker than his cousin's, is clearly meant to make an impression.

Contrite and clearly intimidated, the two boys are then directed out of the garden and lectured all the way home.

I wonder if either of them ever gained back the courage to enter the garden unaccompanied, again? :D

Strapped for Cheating

In high school, I had two most-favorite (among many just-favorite) subjects: Band, and English. Yes, English -- big surprise. :D Band, of course, because I have always loved music and marching band gave me an incredible social outlet, and English for many reasons, not least of which the story I'm about to relate to you here... :D

I had this wonderful teacher for two years in a row, for first and second-year English -- he just recently retired. He was very thoroughly my favorite teacher in high school -- and very quickly became something of a distant father-figure in the back of my mind. This probably had more to do than I might have thought at the time with the fact that he started off each year, on the first day of class, by discouraging any would-be cheaters with a compelling personal anecdote. Said anecdote was a rather overly-emphatic, detailed, interactive story about the last time his own father had ever had to physically punish him for anything, when he was the ripe old age of 15, and incidentally, for cheating on a test in school.

He would give us the whole run-down -- the incriminating act itself, the call to his father from the teacher, the *lie* to his father when confronted, the resulting discussion and sheepish confession to cheating between the father, son, and teacher, the tense ride home in the car... then he would ask the class, "What do you think happened? Hmm? Any guesses?"

The odd impetuous voice would perk up, "Were you grounded?"

"Yes, good guess, and what else...?" His eyebrows would creep upward -- I still remember the almost playfully inquisitive look that he would shoot around the silent classroom...

After a few seconds he would continue where he left off... with the instruction from his father when they arrived home to put his books on the kitchen table and to go get the strap (there was usually a muffled gasp or two by this point) and to wait for him in the bathroom... the description of said implement -- thick, wide leather -- and how it hung ominously there in the bathroom, in plain sight each morning and evening... How his father would come in a few minutes later, a stern look of disappointment etched over his face, and take the strap from him... issuing instructions for him to take off his pants, and then to bend at the waist over the edge of the built-in shower/tub and put the palms of his hands down on the shower floor, with his feet firmly planted on the floor of the washroom... At that point he would address the class again, which was by now entirely enthralled with the story.

"Anyone care to tell me what that position presents as the best target...?"

There would usually be a longer-than-entirely-comfortable pause, but almost inevitably some brave soul would speak up, and always with a question rather than an answer, "Your butt?"

"Correct." Would be the nod and the answer, which would then launch into a detailed description of how the strap would be doubled over so that each stroke felt like two, as the thick leather thudded into itself a milli-second later... the slow build-up of intense pain... the tears, and yes, he would reiterate, he cried as a 15-year-old young man... then the long talk with his father afterward and the full intention never to cheat or to outwardly lie in order to cover up errant behavior again...

You may imagine how such a story might affect me, a freshman in high school, sitting there in the back of the class, not even having turned 13 yet (my birthday was always a few weeks into the school year...)... He would usually take up almost a good half of the 90-minute class period with this story at the beginning of the year...

Did he ever notice how red my face must have turned in the back of the room? Did he ever guess that his story was leaving more of an impression on me, and maybe a few others, than he had ever really intended...? Did he ever realize that, rather than deter one particular student from cheating, he'd planted a rather uncharacteristic and tantalizing fantasy in her young mind...? :D