“Don't you believe it.  We'll fetch you a little one and you plant it in the corner over there, and raise it.  And don't call it mullen, call it Pitchiola--that's its right name when it's in a prison.  And you want to water it with your tears.” “Why, I got plenty spring water, Mars Tom.” “You don't _want_ spring water; you want to water it with your tears.  It's the way they always do.” “Why, Mars Tom, I lay I kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste wid spring water whiles another man's a _start'n_ one wid tears.” “That ain't the idea.  You _got_ to do it with tears.” “She'll die on my han's, Mars Tom, she sholy will; kase I doan' skasely ever cry.” So Tom was stumped.  But he studied it over, and then said Jim would have to worry along the best he could with an onion.  He promised he would go to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in Jim's coffee-pot, in the morning. Jim said he would “jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee;” and found so much fault with it, and with the work and bother of raising the mullen, and jews-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up the snakes and spiders and things, on top of all the other work he had to do on pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things, which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility to be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that Tom most lost all patience with him; and said he was just loadened down with more gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to make a name for himself, and yet he didn't know enough to appreciate them, and they was just about wasted on him.  So Jim he was sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and Tom shoved for bed. CHAPTER XXXIX. IN the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole, and in about an hour we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and put it in a safe place under Aunt Sally's bed.  But while we was gone for sp