At last Uncle Peabody agreed with me that it was about time to pick the melon.  I decided to pick it immediately after meeting on Sunday, so that I could give it to my aunt and uncle at dinner-time.  When we got home I ran for the garden.  My feet and those of our friends and neighbors had literally worn a path to the melon.  In eager haste I got my little wheelbarrow and ran with it to the end of that path.  There I found nothing but broken vines!  The melon had vanished.  I ran back to the house almost overcome by a feeling of alarm, for I had thought long of that hour of pride when I should bring the melon and present it to my aunt and uncle.

“Uncle Peabody,” I shouted, “my melon is gone.”

“Well I van!” said he, “somebody must ‘a’ stole it.”

“Stole it?” I repeated the words without fully comprehending what they meant.

“But it was my melon,” I said with a trembling voice.

“Yes and I vum it’s too bad!  But, Bart, you ain’t learned yit that there are wicked people in the world who come and take what don’t belong to ’em.”

There were tears in my eyes when I asked: 

“They’ll bring it back, won’t they?”

“Never!” said Uncle Peabody, “I’m afraid they’ve et it up.”

He had no sooner said it than a cry broke from my lips, and I sank down upon the grass moaning and sobbing.  I lay amidst the ruins of the simple faith of childhood.  It was as if the world and all its joys had come to an end.

“You can’t blame the boy,” I heard Uncle Peabody saying.  “He’s fussed with that melon all summer.  He wanted to give it to you for a present.”

“Ayes so he did!  Well I declare!  I never thought o’ that—­ayes!”

Aunt Deel spoke in a low, kindly tone and came and lifted me to my feet very tenderly.

“Come, Bart, don’t feel so about that old melon,” said she, “it ain’t worth it.  Come with me.  I’m goin’ to give you a present—­ayes I be!”

I was still crying when she took me to her trunk, and offered the grateful assuagement of candy and a belt, all embroidered with blue and white beads.

“Now you see, Bart, how low and mean anybody is that takes what don’t belong to ’em—­ayes!  They’re snakes!  Everybody hates ’em an’ stamps on ’em when they come in sight—­ayes!”

The abomination of the Lord was in her look and manner.  How it shook my soul!  He who had taken the watermelon had also taken from me something I was never to have again, and a very wonderful thing it was—­faith in the goodness of men.  My eyes had seen evil.  The world had committed its first offense against me and my spirit was no longer the white and beautiful thing it had been.  Still, therein is the beginning of wisdom and, looking down the long vista of the years, I thank God for the great harvest of the lost watermelon.  Better things had come in its place—­understanding and what more, often I have vainly tried to estimate.  For one thing that sudden revelation of the heart of childhood had lifted my aunt’s out of the cold storage of a puritanic spirit, and warmed it into new life and opened its door for me.