BRET HARTE
MELONS
As I do not suppose the most gentle of readers will believe thatanybody's sponsors in baptism ever wilfully assumed the responsibilityof such a name, I may as well state that I have reason to infer thatMelons was simply the nickname of a small boy I once knew. If he hadany other, I never knew it.
Various theories were often projected by me to account for this strangecognomen. His head, which was covered with a transparent down, likethat which clothes very small chickens, plainly permitting the scalpto show through, to an imaginative mind might have suggested thatsucculent vegetable. That his parents, recognizing some poeticalsignificance in the fruits of the season, might have given this name toan August child, was an Oriental explanation. That from his infancy hewas fond of indulging in melons seemed on the whole the most likely,particularly as Fancy was not bred in McGinnis's Court. He dawned uponme as Melons. His proximity was indicated by shrill, youthful voicesas "Ah, Melons!" or playfully, "Hi, Melons!" or authoritatively, "You,Melons!"
McGinnis's Court was a democratic expression of some obstinateand radical property-holder. Occupying a limited space between twofashionable thoroughfares, it refused to conform to circumstances, butsturdily paraded its unkempt glories, and frequently asserted itself inungrammatical language. My window--a rear room on the ground floor--inthis way derived blended light and shadow from the court. So low wasthe window-sill, that had I been the least disposed to somnambulism itwould have broken out under such favorable auspices, and I should havehaunted McGinnis's Court. My speculations as to the origin of the courtwere not altogether gratuitous, for by means of this window I oncesaw the Past, as through a glass darkly. It was a Celtic shadow thatearly one morning obstructed my ancient lights. It seemed to belong toan individual with a pea-coat, a stubby pipe, and bristling beard. Hewas gazing intently at the court, resting on a heavy cane, somewhat inthe way that heroes dramatically visit the scenes of their boyhood.As there was little of architectural beauty in the court, I came tothe conclusion that it was McGinnis looking after his property. Thefact that he carefully kicked a broken bottle out of the road somewhatstrengthened me in the opinion. But he presently walked away, and thecourt knew him no more. He probably collected his rents by proxy--if hecollected them at all.
Beyond Melons, of whom all this is purely introductory, there waslittle to interest the most sanguine and hopeful nature. In commonwith all such localities, a great deal of washing was done, incomparison with the visible results. There was always somethingwhisking on the line, and always something whisking through the courtthat looked as if it ought to be there. A fish-geranium--of allplants kept for the recreation of mankind, certainly the greatestillusion--straggled under the window. Through its dusty leaves I caughtthe first glance of Melons.
His age was about seven. He looked older, from the venerable whitenessof his head, and it was impossible to conjecture his size, as he alwayswore clothes apparently belonging to some shapely youth of nineteen.A pair of pantaloons that, when sustained by a single suspender,completely equipped him, formed his every-day suit. How, with thislavish superfluity of clothing, he managed to perform the surprisinggymnastic feats it had been my privilege to witness, I have never beenable to tell. His "turning the crab," and other minor dislocations,were always attended with success. It was not an unusual sight at anyhour of the day to find Melons suspended on a line, or to see hisvenerable head appearing above the roofs of the outhouses. Melons knewthe exact height of every fence in the vicinity, its facilities forscaling, and the possibility of seizure on the other side. His morepeaceful and quieter amusements consisted in dragging a disused boilerby a large string, with hideous outcries, to imaginary fires.
Melons was not gregarious in his habits. A few youth of his own agesometimes called upon him, but they eventually became abusive, andtheir visits were more strictly predatory incursions for old bottlesand junk which formed the staple of McGinnis's Court. Overcome byloneliness one day, Melons inveigled a blind harper into the court.For two hours did that wretched man prosecute his unhallowed calling,unrecompensed, and going round and round the court, apparently underthe impression that it was some other place, while Melons surveyed himfrom an adjoining fence with calm satisfaction. It was this absenceof conscientious motive that brought Melons into disrepute with hisaristocratic neighbors. Orders were issued that no child of wealthyand pious parentage should play with him. This mandate, as a matterof course, invested Melons with a fascinating interest to them.Admiring glances were cast at Melons from nursery windows. Baby fingersbeckoned to him. Invitations to tea (on wood and pewter) were lispedto him from aristocratic back-yards. It was evident he was looked uponas a pure and noble being, untrammeled by the conventionalities ofparentage, and physically as well as mentally exalted above them. Oneafternoon an unusual commotion prevailed in the vicinity of McGinnis'sCourt. Looking from my window I saw Melons perched on the roof of astable, pulling up a rope by which one "Tommy," an infant scion of anadjacent and wealthy house, was suspended in midair. In vain the femalerelatives of Tommy congregated in the back-yard expostulated withMelons; in vain the unhappy father shook his fist at him. Secure inhis position, Melons redoubled his exertions and at last landed Tommyon the roof. Then it was that the humiliating fact was disclosed thatTommy had been acting in collusion with Melons. He grinned delightedlyback at his parents, as if "by merit raised to that bad eminence." Longbefore the ladder arrived that was to succor him, he became the swornally of Melons, and, I regret to say, incited by the same audaciousboy, "chaffed" his own flesh and blood below him. He was eventuallytaken, though, of course, Melons escaped. But Tommy was restrictedto the window after that, and the companionship was limited to "Hi,Melons!" and "You, Tommy!" and Melons to all practical purposes losthim forever. I looked afterward to see some signs of sorrow on Melons'part, but in vain; he buried his grief, if he had any, somewhere in hisone voluminous garment.
At about this time my opportunities of knowing Melons became moreextended. I was engaged in filling a void in the Literature of thePacific Coast. As this void was a pretty large one, and as I wasinformed that the Pacific Coast languished under it, I set apart twohours each day to this work of filling in. It was necessary that Ishould adopt a methodical system, so I retired from the world andlocked myself in my room at a certain hour each day, after comingfrom my office. I then carefully drew out my portfolio and read whatI had written the day before. This would suggest some alterations,and I would carefully rewrite it. During this operation I would turnto consult a book of reference, which invariably proved extremelyinteresting and attractive. It would generally suggest another andbetter method of "filling in." Turning this method over reflectivelyin my mind, I would finally commence the new method which I eventuallyabandoned for the original plan. At this time I would become convincedthat my exhausted faculties demanded a cigar. The operation of lightinga cigar usually suggested that a little quiet reflection and meditationwould be of service to me, and I always allowed myself to be guidedby prudential instincts. Eventually, seated by my window, as beforestated, Melons asserted himself. Though our conversation rarely wentfurther than "Hello, Mister!" and "Ah, Melons!" a vagabond instinct wefelt in common implied a communion deeper than words. Thus time passed,often beguiled by gymnastics on the fence or line (always with an eyeto my window) until dinner was announced and I found a more practicalvoid required my attention. An unlooked-for incident drew us in closerrelation.
A seafaring friend just from a tropical voyage had presented me witha bunch of bananas. They were not quite ripe, and I hung them beforemy window to mature in the sun of McGinnis's Court, whose forcingqualities were remarkable. In the mysteriously mingled odors of shipand shore which they diffused throughout my room, there was lingeringreminiscence of low latitudes. But even that joy was fleeting andevanescent: they never reached maturity.
Coming home one day, as I turned the corner of that fashionablethoroughfare before alluded to, I met a small boy eating a banana.Ther
e was nothing remarkable in that, but as I neared McGinnis's CourtI presently met another small boy, also eating a banana. A thirdsmall boy engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful coincidenceupon my mind. I leave the psychological reader to determine the exactcorrelation between the circumstance and the sickening sense of lossthat overcame me on witnessing it. I reached my room--and found thebunch of bananas was gone.
There was but one that knew of their existence, but one who frequentedmy window, but one capable of gymnastic effort to procure them, andthat was--I blush to say it--Melons. Melons the depredator--Melons,despoiled by larger boys of his ill-gotten booty, or reckless andindiscreetly liberal; Melons--now a fugitive on some neighborhoodhousetop. I lit a cigar, and, drawing my chair to the window, soughtsurcease of sorrow in the contemplation of the fish-geranium. In a fewmoments something white passed my window at about the level of theedge. There was no mistaking that hoary head, which now representedto me only aged iniquity. It was Melons, that venerable, juvenilehypocrite.
He affected not to observe me, and would have withdrawn quietly, butthat horrible fascination which causes the murderer to revisit thescene of his crime impelled him toward my window.
I smoked calmly and gazed at him without speaking.
He walked several times up and down the court with a half-rigid,half-belligerent expression of eye and shoulder, intended to representthe carelessness of innocence.
Once or twice he stopped, and putting his arms their whole length intohis capacious trousers, gazed with some interest at the additionalwidth they thus acquired. Then he whistled. The singular conflictingconditions of John Brown's body and soul were at that time beginning toattract the attention of youth, and Melons's performance of that melodywas always remarkable. But to-day he whistled falsely and shrillybetween his teeth.
At last he met my eye. He winced slightly, but recovered himself, andgoing to the fence, stood for a few moments on his hands, with his barefeet quivering in the air. Then he turned toward me and threw out aconversational preliminary:
"They is a cirkis"--said Melons gravely, hanging with his back tothe fence and his arms twisted around the palings--"a cirkis overyonder!"--indicating the locality with his foot--"with hosses andhossback riders. They is a man wot rides six hosses to onct--six hossesto onct--and nary saddle"--and he paused in expectation.
Even this equestrian novelty did not affect me. I still kept a fixedgaze on Melons's eye, and he began to tremble and visibly shrink in hiscapacious garment. Some other desperate means--conversation with Melonswas always a desperate means--must be resorted to. He recommenced moreartfully:
"Do you know Carrots?"
I had a faint remembrance of a boy of that euphonious name, withscarlet hair, who was a playmate and persecutor of Melons. But I saidnothing.
"Carrots is a bad boy. Killed a policeman onct. Wears a dirk knife inhis boots. Saw him to-day looking in your windy."
I felt that this must end here. I rose sternly and addressed Melons.
"Melons, this is all irrelevant and impertinent to the case. _You_took those bananas. Your proposition regarding Carrots, even if I wereinclined to accept it as credible information, does not alter thematerial issue. You took those bananas. The offense under the statutesof California is felony. How far Carrots may have been accessory tothe fact either before or after it is not my intention at present todiscuss. The act is complete. Your present conduct shows the _animofurandi_ to have been equally clear."
By the time I had finished this exordium Melons had disappeared, as Ifully expected.
He never reappeared. The remorse that I have experienced for the partI had taken in what I fear may have resulted in his utter and completeextermination, alas! he may not know, except through these pages. ForI have never seen him since. Whether he ran away and went to sea toreappear at some future day as the most ancient of mariners, or whetherhe buried himself completely in his trousers, I never shall know. Ihave read the papers anxiously for accounts of him. I have gone to thepolice office in the vain attempt of identifying him as a lost child.But I never saw him or heard of him since. Strange fears have sometimescrossed my mind that his venerable appearance may have been actuallythe result of senility, and that he may have been gathered peacefullyto his fathers in a green old age. I have even had doubts of hisexistence, and have sometimes thought that he was providentially andmysteriously offered to fill the void I have before alluded to. In thathope I have written these pages.--_Mrs. Skaggs's Husbands, and otherSketches._