GHOSTS AND WATER-MELONS.
BY J. H. WOODBURY.
BOBBY TATMAN was a little Yankee fellow, but he looked like an Italian boy, with his tangly brown hair, and his soft, simple dark eyes. He was very fond of water-melons; but he was very much afraid of ghosts; and in his simple heart he believed everything that was told him, and thereby hangs a tale.
There was a man, whom all the neighbors knew as Uncle Ben, who had some very fine water-melons—which Bobby knew all about—for they were only about a mile from Bobby’s father’s house.
These were the nearest water-melons that Bobby knew of, and he used to go over occasionally, with his friend James Scott, to look at them, and see how they were coming on. Both Bobby and his friend grew much interested in the melons, as they were ripening, and Bobby wondered why his father did not raise water-melons, too. This was not a large patch, and it was in a sunny nook of Uncle Ben’s farm, out of sight from his house.
“It wouldn’t be stealing to take water-melons,” remarked Bobby’s friend one day, as the two were sitting on the fence alongside the little patch. “It wouldn’t be any more stealing than picking off corn to roast, when we go a-fishing, would be stealing, as I can see.”
“I don’t know as it would be,” Bobby admitted, musingly. “Ishouldlike that old big fellow! Uncle Ben says that’s amountain-sweet. But it wouldalmostbe stealing to take that one, sure! and Uncle Ben would miss it the first thing, too.”
“I s’pose he would,” said James, “and then there’d be a row. It won’t do to take that one. I tell you what, Bobby, we won’t take any of ’em now, but we’ll come to-night, after dark, and then there won’t be any danger of anybody’s seeing us. Of course it won’t be stealing; but Uncle Ben’s just mean enough to make a row about it, I s’pose, if he should happen to find it out.”
“I guess he would,” said Bobby. “I shouldn’t want to have him see us, anyhow.”
And so, not to run any risk, they concluded to wait.
When it was night they came again, and sat together upon the same fence, listening for a time for sounds of any others who might be approaching, before they got down to select their melons. All was still, and, feeling secure from detection, they got down and began to search among the vines. They could tell by rapping upon the melons which the ripe ones were, and it was not long till they had made their selection, and were scudding away, each with a melon almost as large as he could carry, along the fence towards Uncle Ben’s corn-field, which was still farther from his house.
When they got to the corn-field they felt safe, and, as the melons were heavy, they concluded to eat one before going further. So they sat down in a nook of the fence—a Virginia rail-fence, as we used to call that kind—and Bobby took out a knife that he thought a great deal of—because his Aunt Hannah had given it him, and it had his initials on a little silver plate set in the handle—and in a moment more they were eating and praising the delicious melon.
“Of course ’tain’t stealing,” said James Scott, as Bobby again brought up that question. “Uncle Ben always does have better water-melons than anybody else, and he can’t expect to have ’emallto himself. What’s the use of living in a free country, if you can’t have a water-melon once in a while? Help yourself. Bobby—but don’t eat too near the rind.”
Bobby helped himself,—though he could not help thinking all the time that it was to Uncle Ben’s water-melon,—and the boys filled up, gradually, till they could hold no more. Then each had a great shell that would have almost floated him, had he felt like going to sea in it, and the question was, what to do with them.
“Let’s tuck ’em under the bottom rail,” said James; “they won’t be noticed there.”
So they tucked them under the lower rail—a broad, flat rail that seemed to have been made on purpose to cover them—and then they both got straight up on their feet to stretch themselves. In the same instant they both started suddenly, and took to their heels.
They ran till they were out of breath; and James Scott got a long way ahead of his friend Bobby. But Bobby came up with James before he started again, and asked, as soon as he could get breath enough, “Was it Uncle Ben?”
“It must have been him, or his ghost,” was the reply. “Did you see his legs, Bobby?”
“No. Did you?”
“It didn’t look as if he had any. He was a queer-looking chap, anyhow.”
“I wonder if he’s coming?” And Bobby seemed almost ready to start again. “Do you s’pose he knew us?”
“Shouldn’t wonder if he did. But, if ’twas Uncle Ben, he’d know he couldn’t catch us. He must have been there all the time. I say, Bobby, I’m afraid we’ll hear about this.”
“I don’t see how he happened to be right there! Oh, dear! I left my knife, too!”
“I guess if t’was Uncle Ben he’ll take care of that. Of course he’ll know who it belongs to. If he gets that knife, he hadn’t oughter say anything about the water-melon. It’s worth more’n both on ’em.”
“I know it. Don’t you suppose itwasUncle Ben’sghost, after all? I wish it was!”
“It couldn’t have been, unless he’s died since noon, you know. He looked well enough then. Do you s’pose it would be of any use to go back, Bobby?”
“No, indeed! I’d rather go home. I wish I had my knife, though. I wonder why he didn’t speak?”
“That’s whatIdon’t understand. I should have thought he would just said something, before we got out of hearing.”
“Like as not it wasn’t him, after all.”
“Like as not it wasn’t, Bobby. S’posing we go back.”
“I’m going home,” was Bobby’s reply. “I don’t believe it pays to steal water-melons, anyway.”
“’Twasn’t stealing, Bobby!—no such thing! Of course anybody’s a right to take a water-melon. Uncle Ben had no business to raise ’em, if folks had got to steal ’em before they could eat ’em!”
“That’s so,” groaned Bobby. “I shouldn’t have thought he’d have planted them.”
And so, groaning in spirit, Bobby went home. He had lost his knife, and everybody would know next day that he had been stealing water-melons. He couldn’t help thinking that the folks would call itstealing, after all.
What to do he didn’t know; but he must go home at all events. He was never out very late, and when he went in his mother asked him where he had been. He said he had been over to James Scott’s.
“I don’t like to have you over there so much, Bobby,” said his mother. “I am afraid James Scott is not a very good boy.”
Bobby’s face was flushed, and he seemed very tired, so his mother told him he had better go to bed. He was glad enough to go, but he lay a long time thinking of his knife and the water-melons, and of Uncle Ben standing there by the fence, before he went to sleep.
Bobby slept in the attic, up under the roof. There was another bed in the same attic for the hired man. There were also a great many things for which there was no room anywhere else,—large chests, piles of bedding, and things that had got past use.
Bobby got to sleep at last; but he awoke in the night—something unusual for him—after the moon had risen, and was giving just light enough to show things in the room very dimly. He opened his eyes, and almost the first object he saw caused his heart to beat very quickly. Somebody was sitting upon one of those large chests. It was a dim and indistinct form, but it looked ghostly white in the moonlight, and Bobby could not help feeling afraid. He had never seen a ghost, fairly, but he began to think now that he had one in his room.
Bobby lay and watched that ghost, feeling warm and cold by turns, till at last he was sure it was beginning to look like Uncle Ben. The wind had begun to blow, and to move the branches of the old elm outside, thus causing the moonlight to flicker fitfully in the room. It seemed as if it must be Uncle Ben! Bobby could see him laugh, though he could not hear a sound except the sighing wind and the swaying branches of the old elm, mingling dolefully with the snoring of the hired man.
The ghost laughed and shook his head by turns, and pointed his finger at Bobby, as if to say, “I’ve marked you!”
Bobby began to imagine that Uncle Ben had been run over by a cart, or killed in some way that very afternoon, and that his ghost was really there. He was almost glad it was so, for he could endure the ghost, disagreeable as he felt his presence to be, much better than meet Uncle Ben alive, with that knife in his possession.
So he shivered, and sweat, and reasoned himself more firmly into the belief that it was Uncle Ben’s ghost that was sitting on the chest. He was glad of it, for now he could go in the morning and find his knife, and hide that other water-melon before anyone else should pass that way. Still the presence of the ghost was very disagreeable to him; and at last he ventured to go and get into the other bed with the hired man, rather than lie longer alone.
The hired man stopped snoring, turned over, woke up, and asked Bobby what was the matter.
“There’s somebody up here,” said Bobby, ashamed to own that it was a ghost.
“Who? where?” and the hired man sat up and looked around.
“On that chest,” said Bobby. “Don’t you see him?”
“Ye—yes; I see him.” And, as if afraid to speak again, the hired man watched the blinking countenance of the stranger closely.
After a moment he got out of bed carefully, saying in a whisper as he did so:
“How long has he been there, Bobby?”
“Ever so long,” was Bobby’s reply. “Ain’t it a ghost?”
“I guess so. I’ll find out, at all events,” and the bold fellow moved carefully towards it.
He approached on tiptoe till he could almost touch it, and then he stopped.
“It’s a ghost, Bobby,” said he, “sure enough; but I’ll fix him!”
He just drew back one arm, and planted a prodigious blow right in the ghost’s stomach; and you ought to have seen that ghost jump!
It went almost out of the window at one leap; but fell short, on the floor, and lay as if dead. The hired man went boldly back and got into bed, remarking:
“That’s one of the ghosts we read about, Bobby; I guess he won’t troubleusany more!”
Bobby did not quite understand it. He began to think that Uncle Ben might be still living; but he went to sleep again, at last, and the next time he awoke it was morning. It was daylight, and the hired, man had gone down-stairs. He looked for the ghost. There he lay, sure enough, very quiet on the floor, but, after all, it was only a bag of feathers!
So Bobby felt sure he would have to meet Uncle Ben, and that everybody would know all about it; and he felt very miserable all day, waiting for him to come. He did not go near James Scott, for he felt that it was largely owing to him that he had got into trouble. It wasn’t at all likely that he could or would help him out of it. He wanted dreadfully to go and look for his knife, but would no more have done that than he would have gone and drowned himself. Indeed, he did think rather seriously of doing the last; but, being a good swimmer, he supposed the probabilities would be against his sinking; and besides, he still had a regard for the feelings of his mother.
It was a miserably long day, but after all Uncle Ben did not come. What could it mean? Bobby did not know, but he went to bed and slept better the next night. And the next day his fears began to wear away. It was night again, and still Uncle Ben had not come.
The third morning Bobby was almost himself again. He was resolved, now, to go and look for his knife. It must be that Uncle Ben had not found it. If he had, he would certainly have made it known before this. He was quite sure, too, that Uncle Ben could not have known who those two boys were. So he went, with a lightened heart, early in the day, to look for his knife.
Of course he took a roundabout way, that he might keep as far from Uncle Ben’s house as possible. Judge of his surprise and relief when he saw, on coming in sight of the spot, not Uncle Ben, but a dilapidatedscarecrow. It stood leaning against the fence, where, having served its time, Uncle Ben had probably left it, neglected and forgotten. Being arrayed in one of Uncle Ben’s old coats, it did have a strange resemblance to the old man himself.
“It’s all right, after all,” thought Bobby, and he hurried confidently forward to pick up his knife. But imagine now the surprise and fright that came into Bobby’s soft eyes when he found that his knife was not there! Neither the knife, the water-melon,nor the water-melon rinds! All were gone.
Without stopping long, Bobby turned to retrace his steps. But as he did so some one called to him. It was Uncle Ben; and he stopped again and stood mute.
“I’ve been waiting to see ye, Bobby,” said the old man, coming up. “I reckoned you’d come for your knife, and I thought you’d rather see me here than have me bring it home to ye. Of course I knew you’d been here, when I found this, but it wasn’t likely you’d come alone. I’m sorry you’ve been in bad company, Bobby. Your father and mother think you’re a good boy, and I don’t want them to think any other way. Of courseyoudon’t want them to think any other way, either, do you, Bobby?” And the old man looked kindly down into the soft eyes.
Bobby made out to say that he did not.
“That’s the reason, Bobby, why I didn’t bring the knife home. I thought I’d better give it to ye here. Now take it, and don’t for the world ever say a word to anybody how you lost it. And I want ye to come down to the melon-patch with me, for I’m going to send a nice mountain-sweet over to your mother.”
Bobby took his knife, and followed Uncle Ben, unable to utter a word. As they went along, the old man talked to him of his corn and his pumpkins, just as if there was no reason in the world why he and Bobby should not be on the best of terms. He seemed to have quite forgotten that Bobby had ever stolen anything from him. Arrived at the patch he picked off one of the finest melons, as large as the boy could carry, and, after a little more talk, sent him with it to his mother.
And so, after all, Bobby’s heart never felt lighter than it did that morning, after he had left Uncle Ben. He had at last found words to thank him, and to say that he was very sorry for what he had done, but scarce more. But that was all Uncle Ben wanted; and, so long as he lived, after that, he had no truer friend among the neighbor’s boys than Bobby Tatman.