do, Jim.  We can't help the way a king smells; history don't tell no way.” “Now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways.” “Yes, a duke's different.  But not very different.  This one's a middling hard lot for a duke.  When he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted man could tell him from a king.” “Well, anyways, I doan' hanker for no mo' un um, Huck.  Dese is all I kin stan'.” “It's the way I feel, too, Jim.  But we've got them on our hands, and we got to remember what they are, and make allowances.  Sometimes I wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings.” What was the use to tell Jim these warn't real kings and dukes?  It wouldn't a done no good; and, besides, it was just as I said:  you couldn't tell them from the real kind. I went to sleep, and Jim didn't call me when it was my turn.  He often done that.  When I waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself.  I didn't take notice nor let on.  I knowed what it was about.  He was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his life; and I do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their'n.  It don't seem natural, but I reckon it's so.  He was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged I was asleep, and saying, “Po' little 'Lizabeth! po' little Johnny! it's mighty hard; I spec' I ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!”  He was a mighty good nigger, Jim was. But this time I somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says: “What makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase I hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time I treat my little 'Lizabeth so ornery.  She warn't on'y 'bout fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' a