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The Floating Press - Edward Bellamy

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17 pages

English

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Edward Bellamy is best remembered for the utopian novel Looking Backward, which had a profound cultural impact when it was published, inciting many readers to form organizations seeking to put the book's ideas into practice. The charming short story "Hooking Watermelons," chock-full of local color, illustrates how something as seemingly innocuous as a melon patch can actually be a symbol of intractable social divides.

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Short story

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juin 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776537655
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0034€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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HOOKING WATERMELONS
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EDWARD BELLAMY

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Hooking Watermelons First published in 1898 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-765-5 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-766-2 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Hooking Watermelons
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The train slackened, a brakeman thrust his head in at the door andshouted "Bah,"—a mysterious formality observed on American trains asthey enter towns,—and an elderly lady, two drummers, and a youngman with a satchel got out, followed by the languid envy of the otherpassengers, who had longer or shorter penances of heat and dust beforethem. The train got under way again, while the knot of loafers about thestation proceeded to eye the arrivals as judicially as if they were acommittee of safety to protect the village from invasion by doubtfulcharacters. The old lady, apparently laboring under some suchimpression, regarded them deferentially, as nervous travelers onarriving in strange places generally do regard everybody who seems tofeel at home. The drummers briskly disappeared down the main street,each anxious to anticipate the other at the stores. The young man withthe satchel, however, did not get away till he had shaken hands andexchanged a few good-natured inquiries with one of the loungers.
"Who's that, Bill?" asked one of the group, staring after the retreatingfigure with lazy curiosity.
"Why, did n't you know him? Thought everybody knew him. That's ArthurSteele," replied the one who had shaken hands, in a tone of cordialityindicating that his politeness had left a pleasant impression on hismind, as Arthur Steele's politeness generally did.
"Who is he, anyhow?" pursued the other.
"Why, he 's a Fairfield boy" (the brakeman pronounced it "Bah"), "bornand brought up here. His folks allers lived right next to mine, and nowhe's doin' a rushin' lawyer trade down New York, and I expect he's justrakin' the stamps. Did yer see that diamond pin he wore?"
"S'pose it's genooine?" asked a third loafer, with interest.
"Course it was. I tell you he's on the make, and don't you forgit it.Some fellers allers has luck. Many 's the time he 'n' I 've been inswim-min' and hookin' apples together when we wuz little chaps," pursuedBill, in a tone implying a mild reproach at the deceitfulness ofan analogy that after such fair promise in early life had failed tocomplete itself in their later fortunes.
"Why, darn it all, you know him, Jim," he continued, dropping the toneof pensive reminiscence into which he had momentarily allowed himself tofall. "That pretty gal that sings in the Baptis' choir is his sister."
After a space of silent rumination and jerking of peanut shells uponthe track, the group broke up its session, and adjourned by tacitunderstanding till the next train was due.
Arthur Steele was half an hour in getting to his father's house, becauseeverybody he met on the street insisted on shaking hands with him.Everybody in Fairfield had known him since he was a boy, and had seenhim grow up, and all were proud of him as a credit to the village andone of its most successful representatives in the big outside world. Theyoung man had sense and sentiment enough to feel that the place he heldin the esteem of his native community was a thing to feel more justpride in than any station he could win in the city, and as he walkedalong hand-shaking with old friends on this side and that, it was abouthis idea of a triumphal entry.
There was the dear old house, and as he saw it his memory of it startedout vividly in his mind as if to attest how faithfully it had kept eachdetail. It never would come out so clearly at times when he was far awayand needed its comfort.