on a paper, and read them off, so: 1.  Here a captive heart busted. 2.  Here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. 3.  Here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity. 4.  Here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of Louis XIV. 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: “Come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log walls in a dungeon:  we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock.  We'll fetch a rock.” Jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get out.  But Tom said he would let me help him do it.  Then he took a look to see how me and Jim was getting along with the pens.  It was most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands no show to get well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly; so Tom says: “I know how to fix it.  We got to have a rock for the coat of arms and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same rock. There's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it, and carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too.” It warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone nuther; but we allowed we'd tackle it.  It warn't quite midnight yet, so we cleared out for the mill, leavi