Makes me want to go to the nearest island, catch some fish, cook it over the fire and lay in the sun with a pipe

I’m impressed at how Twain can capture the essence of so many childhood experiences. Like the tone of Tom’s sulks:

“He knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. He would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none. He knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. He pictured himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid. Ah, how would she feel then?”

But also his fickleness:

“But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time.”

You can tell he was a sketch writer. He can write beautiful standalone chapters / paragraphs, even if the whole thing doesn’t quite string together as smoothly as you’d expect.