sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers for wadding, besides some tow.  I toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest.  I thought it all over, and I reckoned I would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when I run away.  I guessed I wouldn't stay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly night times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find me any more.  I judged I would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and I reckoned he would.  I got so full of it I didn't notice how long I was staying till the old man hollered and asked me whether I was asleep or drownded. I got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark.  While I was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and went to ripping again.  He had been drunk over in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at.  A body would a thought he was Adam--he was just all mud.  Whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment, this time he says: “Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him--a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising.  Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for _him_ and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him.  And they call _that_ govment!  That ain't all, nuther.  The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property.  Here's what the law does:  The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that govme