The Wit and Humor of America, Volume I | Page 8

the court, apparently under
the impression that it was some other place, while Melons surveyed
him from an adjoining fence with calm satisfaction. It was this absence
of conscientious motives that brought Melons into disrepute with his
aristocratic neighbors. Orders were issued that no child of wealthy and
pious parentage should play with him. This mandate, as a matter of
course, invested Melons with a fascinating interest to them. Admiring
glances were cast at Melons from nursery windows. Baby fingers
beckoned to him. Invitations to tea (on wood and pewter) were lisped
to him from aristocratic back-yards. It was evident he was looked upon
as a pure and noble being, untrammelled by the conventionalities of
parentage, and physically as well as mentally exalted above them. One
afternoon an unusual commotion prevailed in the vicinity of

McGinnis's Court. Looking from my window I saw Melons perched on
the roof of a stable, pulling up a rope by which one "Tommy," an infant
scion of an adjacent and wealthy house, was suspended in mid-air. In
vain the female relatives of Tommy, congregated in the back-yard,
expostulated with Melons; in vain the unhappy father shook his fist at
him. Secure in his position, Melons redoubled his exertions and at last
landed Tommy on the roof. Then it was that the humiliating fact was
disclosed that Tommy had been acting in collusion with Melons. He
grinned delightedly back at his parents, as if "by merit raised to that bad
eminence." Long before the ladder arrived that was to succor him, he
became the sworn ally of Melons, and, I regret to say, incited by the
same audacious boy, "chaffed" his own flesh and blood below him. He
was eventually taken, though, of course, Melons escaped. But Tommy
was restricted to the window after that, and the companionship was
limited to "Hi Melons!" and "You Tommy!" and Melons to all practical
purposes, lost him forever. I looked afterward to see some signs of
sorrow on Melons's part, but in vain; he buried his grief, if he had any,
somewhere in his one voluminous garment.
At about this time my opportunities of knowing Melons became more
extended. I was engaged in filling a void in the Literature of the Pacific
Coast. As this void was a pretty large one, and as I was informed that
the Pacific Coast languished under it, I set apart two hours each day to
this work of filling in. It was necessary that I should adopt a methodical
system, so I retired from the world and locked myself in my room at a
certain hour each day, after coming from my office. I then carefully
drew out my portfolio and read what I had written the day before. This
would suggest some alterations, and I would carefully rewrite it.
During this operation I would turn to consult a book of reference,
which invariably proved extremely interesting and attractive. It would
generally suggest another and better method of "filling in." Turning this
method over reflectively in my mind, I would finally commence the
new method which I eventually abandoned for the original plan. At this
time I would become convinced that my exhausted faculties demanded
a cigar. The operation of lighting a cigar usually suggested that a little
quiet reflection and meditation would be of service to me, and I always
allowed myself to be guided by prudential instincts. Eventually, seated

by my window, as before stated, Melons asserted himself. Though our
conversation rarely went further than "Hello, Mister!" and "Ah,
Melons!" a vagabond instinct we felt in common implied a communion
deeper than words. In this spiritual commingling the time passed, often
beguiled by gymnastics on the fence or line (always with an eye to my
window) until dinner was announced and I found a more practical void
required my attention. An unlooked-for incident drew us in closer
relation.
A sea-faring friend just from a tropical voyage had presented me with a
bunch of bananas. They were not quite ripe, and I hung them before my
window to mature in the sun of McGinnis's Court, whose forcing
qualities were remarkable. In the mysteriously mingled odors of ship
and shore which they diffused throughout my room, there was lingering
reminiscence of low latitudes. But even that joy was fleeting and
evanescent: they never reached maturity.
Coming home one day, as I turned the corner of that fashionable
thoroughfare before alluded to, I met a small boy eating a banana.
There was nothing remarkable in that, but as I neared McGinnis's Court
I presently met another small boy, also eating a banana. A third small
boy engaged in a like occupation obtruded a painful coincidence upon
my mind. I leave the psychological reader to determine the exact
co-relation between the circumstance and the sickening sense