As I do not suppose the most gentle of readers will believe that
anybody's sponsors in baptism ever wilfully assumed the responsibility
of such a name, I may as well state that I have reason to infer that
Melons was simply the nickname of a small boy I once knew. If he had
any other, I never knew it.
Various theories were often projected by me to account for this strange
cognomen. His head, which was covered with a transparent down, like
that which clothes very small chickens, plainly permitting the scalp
to show through, to an imaginative mind might have suggested that
succulent vegetable. That his parents, recognizing some poetical
significance in the fruits of the season, might have given this name to
an August child, was an Oriental explanation. That from his infancy he
was fond of indulging in melons seemed on the whole the most likely,
particularly as Fancy was not bred in McGinnis's Court. He dawned upon
me as Melons. His proximity was indicated by shrill, youthful voices
as "Ah, Melons!" or playfully, "Hi, Melons!" or authoritatively, "You,
Melons!"
McGinnis's Court was a democratic expression of some obstinate
and radical property-holder. Occupying a limited space between two
fashionable thoroughfares, it refused to conform to circumstances, but
sturdily paraded its unkempt glories, and frequently asserted itself in
ungrammatical language. My window--a rear room on the ground floor--in
this way derived blended light and shadow from the court. So low was
the window-sill, that had I been the least disposed to somnambulism it
would have broken out under such favorable auspices, and I should have
haunted McGinnis's Court. My speculations as to the origin of the court
were not altogether gratuitous, for by means of this window I once
saw the Past, as through a glass darkly. It was a Celtic shadow that
early one morning obstructed my ancient lights. It seemed to belong to
an individual with a pea-coat, a stubby pipe, and bristling beard. He
was gazing intently at the court, resting on a heavy cane, somewhat in
the way that heroes dramatically visit the scenes of their boyhood.
As there was little of architectural beauty in the court, I came to
the conclusion that it was McGinnis looking after his property. The
fact that he carefully kicked a broken bottle out of the road somewhat
strengthened me in the opinion. But he presently walked away, and the
court knew him no more. He probably collected his rents by proxy--if he
collected them at all.
Beyond Melons, of whom all this is purely introductory, there was
little to interest the most sanguine and hopeful nature. In common
with all such localities, a great deal of washing was done, in
comparison with the visible results. There was always something
whisking on the line, and always something whisking through the court
that looked as if it ought to be there. A fish-geranium--of all
plants kept for the recreation of mankind, certainly the greatest
illusion--straggled under the window. Through its dusty leaves I caught
the first glance of Melons.
His age was about seven. He looked older, from the venerable whiteness
of his head, and it was impossible to conjecture his size, as he always
wore 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 this
lavish superfluity of clothing, he managed to perform the surprising
gymnastic feats it had been my privilege to witness, I have never been
able to tell. His "turning the crab," and other minor dislocations,
were always attended with success. It was not an unusual sight at any
hour of the day to find Melons suspended on a line, or to see his
venerable head appearing above the roofs of the outhouses. Melons knew
the exact height of every fence in the vicinity, its facilities for
scaling, and the possibility of seizure on the other side. His more
peaceful and quieter amusements consisted in dragging a disused boiler
by a large string, with hideous outcries, to imaginary fires.
Melons was not gregarious in his habits. A few youth of his own age
sometimes called upon him, but they eventually became abusive, and
their visits were more strictly predatory incursions for old bottles
and junk which formed the staple of McGinnis's Court. Overcome by
loneliness 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 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 motive 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, untrammeled 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 midair. 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'
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. Thus 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 seafaring 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
correlation between the circumstance and the sickening sense of loss
that overcame me on witnessing it. I reached my room--and found the
bunch of bananas was gone.
There was but one that knew of their existence, but one who frequented
my window, but one capable of gymnastic effort to procure them, and
that was--I blush to say it--Melons. Melons the depredator--Melons,
despoiled by larger boys of his ill-gotten booty, or reckless and
indiscreetly liberal; Melons--now a fugitive on some neighborhood
housetop. I lit a cigar, and, drawing my chair to the window, sought
surcease of sorrow in the contemplation of the fish-geranium. In a few
moments something white passed my window at about the level of the
edge. There was no mistaking that hoary head, which now represented
to me only aged iniquity. It was Melons, that venerable, juvenile
hypocrite.
He affected not to observe me, and would have withdrawn quietly, but
that horrible fascination which causes the murderer to revisit the
scene of his crime impelled him toward my window.