Hooking Watermelons | Page 2

for the cheer of bleak
boarding-house Sunday afternoons. Then there was a sudden glancing
up, a cry of joyful consternation, and the pan of currants rolled from
Amy's lap like a broken necklace of rubies across the uncarpeted floor,
while Arthur held mother and sister in a double embrace. And when at
length the kissing had all been done, he established himself in his

familiar boyish attitude on the window-seat, kicking his heels against
the mopboard, with his elbows on his knees, and the three talked away
steadily till the shop-bell rang, and Mrs. Steele sprang up in a panic,
exclaiming: "Father will be here in five minutes, and the currants are on
the floor. Come, Amy, quick; we must pick some more, and you shall
help, Arthur."
But though he went out into the garden with them readily enough, it
was quite another thing to make him pick currants, for he insisted on
wandering all over the place and demanding what had become of
everything he missed, and the history of everything new. And pretty
soon Mr. Steele also appeared in the garden, having found no one in the
house on reaching home. He had learned on the street that Arthur had
arrived, and came out beaming. It was good to see the hearty affection
with which the two shook hands.
The transition of the son from the pupilage of childhood and youth to
the independence of manhood is often trying to the filial relation.
Neither party fully realizes that the old relation is at an end, or just
what the new basis is, or when the change takes place. The absence of
the son for two or three years at this period has often the best results.
He goes a boy and returns a man; the old relation is forgotten by both
parties, and they readily fall into the new one. So it had fared with
Arthur and his father.
"You've got a splendid lot of watermelons," said the former, as they
arrived at the upper end of the ample garden in their tour of inspection.
"Yes," replied Mr. Steele, with a shrug; "only thus far they've been
stolen a little faster than they 've ripened."
"What made you plant them so near the fence?"
"That was my blunder; but you see the soil is just the thing, better than
lower down."
"Why don't you buy a bulldog?"

"I think it's more Christian to shoot a man outright than to set one of
those devils on him. The breed ought to be extirpated."
"Put some ipecac in one or two. That 'll fetch 'em. I know how sick it
made me once."
"I did; but more were stolen next night. I can't afford to medicate the
whole village. Last night I sat up to watch till twelve o'clock, when
mother made me go to bed."
"I'll watch to-night," said Arthur, "and give 'em a lesson with a good
load of beans from the old shotgun."
"It would n't pay," replied his father. "I concluded last night that all the
melons in the world were n't worth a night's sleep. They 'll have to go,
and next year I 'll know more than to plant any."
"You go and help Amy pick currants, and let me talk to the boy a
little," said Mrs. Steele, coming up and taking Arthur off for a
promenade up the broad path.
"How pretty Amy has grown," said he, glancing with a pleased smile at
the girl as she looked up at her father. "I suppose the young men are
making sheep's eyes at her already."
"It does n't do them any good if they are," said Mrs. Steele, decisively.
"She's only sixteen and a little girl yet, and has sense enough to know
it." "What had she been crying for when I arrived? I saw her eyes were
as red as the currants."
"Oh, dear!" replied Mrs. Steele, with a sigh of vexation, "it was her
troubles at the Seminary. You know we let her go as a day scholar this
sum-mer. Some of the girls slight and snub her, and she is very
unhappy about it."
"Why, what on earth can anybody have against Amy?" demanded
Arthur, in indignant surprise.

"I suppose it's because some of the little hussies from the city have
taken the notion that they won't associate with a mechanic's daughter,
although Amy is very careful not to say it in so many words, for fear of
hurting my feelings. But I suspect that's about where the shoe pinches."
Arthur muttered something between an oath and a grunt, expressing the
emphasis of the one and the disgust of the other.
"I tell Amy it is foolish to mind their airs, but I 'm really afraid it spoils
the poor girl's happiness."