POOR OLD DOBBIN!
[JUBE'S WATER-MELON.]
BY WADE WHIPPLE.
It was one of the happiest moments of Jube Rosewood's life when, as he was passing Farmer Tappan's melon patch one day, the owner hailed him, and exclaimed:
"Jube, I promised you a reward for driving old Brindle home the other morning, and now if you will jump over that fence and take your pick of those water-melons, you can tote it along home with you."
Jube was one of the blackest little fellows that had ever basked in the sunlight of a Georgia plantation, but his eyes and teeth flashed out such a gleam of joy at this golden promise that his swarthy face seemed like a dark lantern with the slide suddenly turned as he made the delighted response:
"Mars' Tappan, you's fetched me right whar I's lierble ter feel mo' bleedzd to yer dan ef yo'd sot me down in a merlasses bar'l. I'll be dar 'fo' yo' min' gits a chance ter drif out o' dat rut." With this Jube bounded over the old rail fence, and in a moment was at Farmer Tappan's side, gazing critically and with some little wonderment at the streaked delicacies rounding out here and there from their lowly canopies of green.
So eager was the happy boy to show his appreciation of the situation, and of the possibility of the farmer's regretting his generosity, that he sprang toward the first plump specimen of the oblong fruit which he saw, and tapping its dainty shell, exclaimed: