{"id":"01KG16RAXQ609H0KTFP99ZN094","cid":"bafkreibbxj75ydqicjcxce2mw2mqmcseku25id7lmaa6psazi6dmnke6ju","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":1716,"extracted_at":"2026-01-28T02:26:09.273Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG0K71QZ8KK7RGEGSNTB5534","start_line":1652,"text":"CHAPTER V\r\n\r\n\r\nAbout half-past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring,\r\nand presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon. The\r\nSunday-school children distributed themselves about the house and\r\noccupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision. Aunt\r\nPolly came, and Tom and Sid and Mary sat with her—Tom being placed next\r\nthe aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window\r\nand the seductive outside summer scenes as possible. The crowd filed up\r\nthe aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better days;\r\nthe mayor and his wife—for they had a mayor there, among other\r\nunnecessaries; the justice of the peace; the widow Douglas, fair,\r\nsmart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill\r\nmansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much\r\nthe most lavish in the matter of festivities that St. Petersburg could\r\nboast; the bent and venerable Major and Mrs. Ward; lawyer Riverson, the\r\nnew notable from a distance; next the belle of the village, followed by\r\na troop of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers; then all\r\nthe young clerks in town in a body—for they had stood in the vestibule\r\nsucking their cane-heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering\r\nadmirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet; and last of all came\r\nthe Model Boy, Willie Mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as\r\nif she were cut glass. He always brought his mother to church, and was\r\nthe pride of all the matrons. The boys all hated him, he was so\r\ngood. And besides, he had been “thrown up to them” so much. His\r\nwhite handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on\r\nSundays—accidentally. Tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys\r\nwho had as snobs.\r\n\r\nThe congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more,\r\nto warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the\r\nchurch which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the\r\nchoir in the gallery. The choir always tittered and whispered all\r\nthrough service. There was once a church choir that was not ill-bred,\r\nbut I have forgotten where it was, now. It was a great many years ago,\r\nand I can scarcely remember anything about it, but I think it was in\r\nsome foreign country.\r\n\r\nThe minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a\r\npeculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country. His\r\nvoice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a\r\ncertain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word\r\nand then plunged down as if from a spring-board:\r\n\r\n  Shall I be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow’ry _beds_\r\n                                                        of ease,\r\n\r\n  Whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro’ _blood_\r\n                                                        -y seas?\r\n\r\nHe was regarded as a wonderful reader. At church “sociables” he was\r\nalways called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the ladies\r\nwould lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps,\r\nand “wall” their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say, “Words\r\ncannot express it; it is too beautiful, TOO beautiful for this mortal\r\nearth.”\r\n\r\nAfter the hymn had been sung, the Rev. Mr. Sprague turned himself into\r\na bulletin-board, and read off “notices” of meetings and societies and\r\nthings till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of\r\ndoom—a queer custom which is still kept up in America, even in cities,\r\naway here in this age of abundant newspapers. Often, the less there is\r\nto justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG16PT8WAEG9GJHF59RJ3YJ9","peer_label":"CHAPTER V","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG0K71QZ8KK7RGEGSNTB5534","peer_label":"tom_sawyer.txt","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KFXT0KM64XT6K8W52TDEE0YS","peer_label":"More Classics","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG16RAYA8PY813879586Y4WQ","peer_label":"Chunk 2","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-28T02:26:09.522Z","ts":"2026-01-28T02:26:10.508Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}