His
vegetables were his pride, and for miles around no one had so trim a
garden-patch, or so many good things in it, as Nimble Jim.
Only one kind of all his plants failed to come to anything,--his
melon-vines,--and these always failed. This began to grieve him
sorely, for he was fond of melons; and, besides, he thought if he
could only raise fine ones, he might sell them for a deal of money,
like gruff, rich old Farmer Hummidge.
"Oh dear! my melons don't grow like other folkses. They don't come up
at all, or if they do they wither or spindle away," he said, losing
his temper, and tearing up some of the vines by the roots. Then he
went into the cottage, angrily, and began to pound away, driving in
big hob-nails. With the twilight, his mother called him to the simple
meal, but he was sullen and silent.
"What be the matter with ye, my Nimble Jim?" asked the good dame,
cheerily.
"Matter enough, mother! My melons wont grow; there's somethin' the
matter with them. Faith, I believe some imp has cast a spell over 'em.
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