Watermelon time is in full blast in Tennessee now. Ordinarily, the whites in the South cease to eat watermelons after the fifteenth of September, because they know that as soon as the cool nights begin every melon contains a thousand chills. But not so with the darkey. A chill rattles as harmlessly off the armour of his constitution as buckshot from the back of the Olympia. He can absorb miasma like a sponge, and, like it, grow fat as he absorbs. The negro, then, eats his melon until the November frosts kill the vines. Even then he carries the half-ripe melon into his cabin and often, on Christmas morning, an ice-cold watermelon is his first diet.

And a great treat it is. Did you never wander over the fields, way down South, after the cotton was all picked, and the November breezes came cool and ladened with that delicate, indescribably rare flavor the frost gives when it first nips the mellow-ripe muscadine? You have shouldered your gun and gone out after old Mollie Cotton Tail. It was cool and crisp when you went out, but toward noon it has grown hot again. Flushed and tired, you stop to rest by the big spring that flows from under the roots of the big oak near the cotton field. In the shadow of that oak, half hid in the frost-bitten weeds, you find a little striped watermelon—a guinea melon, as the darkies call it—a kind of a volunteer melon that grows in the cotton every year, the first seeds of which were brought by some Guinea negro, from the coast of Africa, when he first came over to servitude, with silver rings in his nose and ears. And though he failed to bring his idols and his household gods along with him, yet did he not forget the melon of his naked ancestors. Planting it as he hoed his first crop of cotton for a new master, it has never deserted him since, and so, year after year, it comes up amid the cotton, to remind him of the days it grew wild in a sunnier clime.

And there you find it this November morning. Boy like, you pounce on it with a shout and soon it is laid open, as red as your first love’s lips and as sweet; and so cold it seems to have been raised in the deep-delved cellars of all the centuries. I am sorry for the boy who has grown to be a man and never, in a November morning’s hunt after Old Mollie, had the exquisite sweetness of this satisfying surprise—the like of which is not equalled by the sweetness of any other surprise on earth. No—not even should he grow to be a man, and awake some morning to find himself famous and the father of twins!

Every darkey of any standing in Tennessee “gives a treat” at least once in his life. He will stint and economize for months to save money enough to invest in watermelons and tartaric acid (the acid makes the lemonade). Then, when the glorious day arrives, Nero, giving free entertainment to the citizens of Eternal Rome, is not in it with that darkey. Henceforth he can get anything in that community he wishes, from constable to presiding elder, while the widows of the church are his’n by a large majority!

I had heard that old Wash was going to run again for justice of the peace and the “deaconship of Zion” over in the coon district of Big Sandy, and that he was going to give his annual treat.

These had always passed off beautifully and ended in the unanimous election of the old man to both offices and anything else he wanted. I thought it was all over and entirely harmonious until he came in the other night, looking like Montejo’s flag-ship after Dewey’s ten-inch shell went through her, “a-rippin’ out her very innards”—as Old Wash himself described it—“from eend to eend.”

But when I saw the old man, creeping into my library, I was certain he was in the last stages of Asiatic cholera, and I rang the telephone hastily to get my family physician. But he feebly raised his hand, and beckoned me to desist.

“No, no, boss; he can’t do me no good—no good,” as he feebly sank into a chair. Then he whispered:

“Jes a drap, a leetle drap, on my tongue, boss—jes’ to let the old man shuffle off dis mortal coil wid a good taste in his mouth. It’s all I wants.”

Under the stimulant of that eternal beverage of moonlight and melody, he revived a little.

“What’s the matter with you? Anybody been giving you a hoodoo,” I asked.

“No, no, boss”—feebly—“I—I—I gin a treat at Big Sandy.”

“Well, you have given many a treat at Big Sandy. Why should this one make you look like a piney-wood coal-kiln after a cyclone had struck it?”

It took another dose from my side-board bottle to put enough life into the old man to make him take any interest in things. Then he brightened up and said:

“Dat’s jes’ hit—a man may go on doin’ de same trick year arter year, ontwel it looks lak he cud do it wid his eyes shet, an’ den at last, if he ain’t mighty keerful, hit’ll buck and fling ’im! De hardes’ luck, I take it, in dis wurl’, am when a man dun shuck de dice ob success ontwell dey seem to bob up at his word, only to play off on him an’ bust ’im es his palsied han’ shakes ’em fur de las’ time.”

His tears were flowing so freely and his remarks seemed so true and heartfelt, I did not have it in me to fail to brace him up with another pull from the side-board bottle. Then I saw he was ripe and reminiscent, and I lit my cigar, struck an easy attitude, and let him do the rest:

“On de Sundy befo’ de fust Mundy ob de full moon in September,” he went on, “cum off de ’lection fur ’ziden elder of Zion, an’ de next day am de day sot by law fur de ’lection of jestus ob de peace. So las’ Sat’d’y I gin a treat. I axed ebry nigger in de deestrict dar, an’ all de members of Zion, an’ Br’er Johnsing wus to preach de watermilion sermon.

“Ain’t nurver heurd ob de watermilion sermon? Hit’s de sermon preached at de feast ob de watermilion jes’ befo’ de new moon in September, an’ it am one ob de doctrines ob Zion to kinder take de place ob de feast ob de Passober ’mong de Jews—only in dis case we don’t pass ober nuffin’, ’specially de watermilions. Now, hit tain’t eb’ry nigger kin preach de watermilion sermon. Hit takes a mighty juicy nigger to do hit, yallar with dark stripes, juicy at de core, full of tears an’ sweet penitence an’ easily laid open by the blade of grace, an’ brudder Johnsing am de slickest one I eber seed at it.

“Now, dat wus my time to git in my fine Italyun han’, an’ so I gin it out that hit wus to be my treat, an’ I axed all de voters ob de deestrick an’ all de members ob Zion ter be on han’ fur de revival ob de speerit an’ de refreshment ob de flesh.

“’Cordin’ to my custom, jes’ befo’ de time fur de sermon I had all de watermilions laid out on de grass, one hundred ob de bigges’ an’ fattes’ ones you eber seed. You see, boss, I am constertushunally upposed to long sermons,” he winked, “an’ I knowed dey wa’n’t a nigger libin’ c’uld preach ober ten minnits wid all dem watermilions a-layin’ dar a-winkin’ at ’im an’ waiting to be led, lak’ lambs, to de sacrifice. Does you see de p’int?”

I saw it.

“Wal, suh, you orter jes’ heurd de prayer Br’er Johnsing put up—it wus short, but mighty sweet. De flavor ob de watermilions seem ter git into hit, an’ de ’roma ob hits juice b’iled outen his mouth. Boss, you’ve seed dese kinder preachers dat talks to de good Lord wid all de easy fermileriaty ob a deestrick skule-teacher axin’ de presedent ob de skule board fur what he wants, an’ wid all de sassy assurance ob de silent partner in a lan’-offis bisness, ain’t you? Wal, dat’s de way Br’er Johnsing prayed, an’ I wus de speshul objec, ob his conversashun wid de Almighty dat day. He tole ’im whut I’d dun fur dat community, informed ’im very posertively ob de fac’ dat I wus a Godly man, refreshed His mem’ry in a gentle way consarnin’ sum’ ob my long-furgotten deeds ob cheerity, an’ gin Him sum’ good, brotherly advice on how to git eben wid me, an’ in a measure pay off de debt of gratitude He owed me by makin’ it His will dat I wus erg’in to administer de law ob de lan’, both spiritual an’ temper’l, an’ fur ernudder twelvemonth ter be de venerbul ram ob de flock ob Zion, to lead His sheep to de fold an’ by de still waters. Wal, suh, when he finish, mighty nigh eb’ry nigger dar said Amen, an’ den dey lick dey chops an’ look sorter dreamy lak ober whar de watermilions lay ’n de col’ spring branch.

“Dis wus my time to spring de s’prise ob de ebenin’ on ’em, dat I’d fixed up. An’ so I riz up wid de most sancterfied look on I c’uld git, one ob dem onworthy, miserbul-sinner sorter looks dat we elders allers carry aroun’ in our coat pockets along with our bandanna handkerchiefs fur enny emergency, an’ I sez: ‘Brudders an’ sistrin, befo’ we listen to de soulful sermon in store fur our spiritual natures, which Br’er Johnsing gwineter gib us in his ellerquent way, I’ve sprung a letle s’prise on you, an’ I wants you all to retire wid me an’ refresh de innard man a leetle. Brudderin’ knowin’ my onworthiness an’ de many obligashuns I am under to dis enlightened community ob Christian saints an’ godly men an’ wimmen, I’ve made two bar’ls ob ice-cold lemmernade, an’ you’ll find ’em asettin’, es a big s’prise,’ sez I, ‘on de houn’s ob my ox-waggin, in de cool shade by de spring, wid plenty ob tin dippers fur all. We’ll now adjourn twenty minnits fur refreshments.’

“Wal, suh, you sh’uld a heurd de shout. Ef de ’lection bed cum’ off den, I’d a got eb’ry vote in de deestrick an’ a fair sprinklin’ ob sum’ in all de yudders. I went wid ’em an’ drunk, too. An’ we all drunk ter one ernudder’s health. I drunk to Sister Ca’line, an’ Br’er Johnsing he drunk to Dinah, an’ de leetle niggers drunk, an’ de ole niggers drunk, de gals an’ de boys. I hilt up my dipper an’ laugh, an’ sed to Br’er Johnsing, ‘Br’er Johnsing, here’s to you,’ sez I, ‘an’ all dat goes up must go down.’ An’ wid dat I swallered down.

“Den Br’er Johnsing—he’s mighty funny—an’ he hilt up his’n and laugh, an’ say: ‘Br’er Washington, here’s to you,’ sez he, ‘an’ all dat goes down nurver comes up ergin.’ An’ den we all laugh.

“But dat wus one time he wus terribly mistaken, es you will see.

“Wal, suh, when we all hed drunk enough we went back to hear de watermilion sermon, an’ den eat de fruit ob whut we heurd. ’Tain’t eb’ry man kin say dat, boss, dat he eats de fruit ob whut he hears; digests de fustly, an’ de secondly, an’ de thudly, assimmerlates in de juicy rime ob de tangerbul thing, de logical konclushun ob de intelectual fac’. An’ darfore I’ve allers sed dat drawin’ yo’ konclushuns frum de heart ob a watermilion makes de bes’ sermon in de wurl’.

“I b’leeve I tole you, boss, dat dat lemmernade wus intended fur a s’prise fur ’em, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I believe you mentioned that it was a little surprise of yours in store for them.”

The old man groaned. “Boss, fur heaben’s sake, annudder drap outen dat bottle! I’ll hafter brace up erg’in to tell de sorrowin’ scene dat follers. Thankee, thankee! I’m better now, an’ maybe I kin finish, fur dat lemmernade turned out to be de bigges’ an’ sorrerfullest surprise dat ever come down a pike.

“Br’er Johnsing tuck fur his tex’ de sermon ob Noah an’ de ark, an’ whilst Noah wus de man menshuned, hit wus plain dat I was de applercashun. He went on to show dat I wus a godly man, jes’ lak’ ole Noah, an’ dat I wus to de community ob Big Sandy whut Noah was to Jeerruselum. He wus makin’ it short, but a-gwine in two-minnit time, a-pacin’ lak’ ole Joe Patchen at a matternee fur a silver cup an’ wreath ob roses, an’ den all at onct he lifted up his voice an’ sed: ‘Yes, brudderin, de waters ob de g-r-e-a-t deep riz up, an’ de bottom drop outen de clouds; de w-i-n-d-e-r-s ob heaben wus flung open, an’ de upheaval ob de u-n-e-v-e-r-s-e begun——’

“Dat wus es fur es he got, befo’ de word upheaval wus outen his mouth, sho’ ’nuff, de upheaval did begun. I seed ’im stop so suddenly he kicked up behind, clap his hands on his stummick an’ try to bolt fur a locus’ thicket, but he c’uldn’t—he jes’ turned a complete summerset, athrowin’ up his immortal soul es he turned. Den I heurd a turrible commoshun in de congregashun, an’ I look erroun’, an’ eb’ry nigger dar wus in de same fix es Br’er Johnsing. Dey wus whoopin’, an’ barkin’, and layin’ out in eb’ry kinder way, an’ all on ’em bent on de same thing. An’ whut dey wus doin’ to dat groun’ wus a-plenty! Dey thought dey was pizened an’ wus gwineter die, an’ den sech s’archin’ prayers es went up to de throne ob grace, mixed in wid moans, an’ groans, an’ ice-cold lemmernade dat seem to think hit wus time ter rise erg’in and fetch eb’rything else frum de grabe along wid it. By dis time I wus so ’stounded I didn’t kno’ whut ter do. I look erroun’ an’ I seed dat me an’ ole Aunt Fat Ferreby wus de onlies’ ones dat wa’n’t tryin’ to turn inside out. She wus lookin’ mighty ashy erroun’ de gills, but she brace hers’f up an’ started out ter raise dat good ole hymn:

‘How firm a foundation’—

But she hadn’t more’n got to ‘foundahun’ befo, her foundation was shaken, I seed her gag an’ double up an’ start in on:

“’Bount dat time I felt a ’tickler kinder mizzry in my own innards, an’ de nex’ thing I disremember I had Sister Ferreby ’round’ de neck an’ we wus singin’ dat hymn tergedder. Lor’! hit wus awful. I’ve seed menny a sight, but I nurver expect erg’in ter see three hundred an’ sixty-five niggers throwin’ up at de same time. When sum’ on ’em got dey secon’ wind dey wanted to lynch me, but by de time dey got erroun’ to me wid a rope dey ’cided I wus too nigh dead to need killin’, and by dis time dey all had to ’zamperfly de truth ob de biblical sayin’ about de dog an’ de thing he would go back to. By dis time eb’ry doctor in de country wus dar, fetchin’ all de querrintine offercers, an’ pest-tents, an’ disenfec-tents, an’ preparin’ fer c’olera an’ fever. An’ den we foun’ out what ailed us.”

“In the name of heaven, what was it?” I asked eagerly.

The tears rolled down the old man’s cheeks as he feebly begged for another drop to enable him to finish his tale. Then he said:

“Ain’t I dun tole you hundreds ob times it am de leetle mistakes we make in life dat turns de tide? Ain’t I? Wal, dat’s whut ruined me dat day, an’ terday I am a man widout offis an’ widout honor in my ole age. Dat mornin’, ’stead ob gwine down to de sto’ myse’f to get de poun’ ob tartar acid ter make up dat lemmernade wid, I saunt dat trifflin’ Jim Crow gran’son ob mine, an’ he got de names twisted, an’ ’stead ob fetchin’ me back tartar acid, he fotcht me back a poun’ ob tartar emetic, an’ I didn’t do a thing but make up dat lemmernade wid it!”

“But, surely, they wouldn’t treasure up such a mistake against you, seeing that you suffered with the rest,” I said.

“Boss,” said the old man, rising, “how long you gwine ter lib wid niggers, an’ den hafter be tole ober an’ ober ergin de same thing? In course, dey didn’t beat me fur offis on ercount ob dat fool mistake, but jes’ lemme ax you, whar is de nigger libin’ dat gwinter vote fur enny man dat’d lay out a hundred watermilions in de spring branch, let ’em look at ’em an hour, an’ den turn dat nigger’s stummick into a green-persimmon fur a week? Whar is he, I ax?” And the old man crept feebly out to find him a cheap coffin.

John Trotwood Moore.

The sweet things of life do not lie so much in sight as in the heart that sees them.