That evening Napoleon Pompey carried a note and a small parcel to Madame, who guessed pretty well what it was. The note was brief, it contained but these words: “I thought you sent the bracelet as a present, therefore I accepted it and was grateful: now I know you sent it as a reproof, therefore I return it.” CHAPTER XII. THE PRAIRIE FIRE. The summer had been a particularly dry one, and since the beginning of July not a drop of rain had fallen. The water-melons revelled in the heat, and Olive revelled in the water-melons: for by a blessed compensation of Nature the hotter and drier the land, the cooler and juicier the water-melons seem to be. The water-melon of the western prairie is as different from the pallid green-fleshed vegetable which masquerades under its name in this country, as the full moon of the heavens is superior to the lime-light article manufactured for use on the stage. The real prairie water-melon is an enormous affair, being about as large as the roll of rugs without which fussy gentlemen consider it impossible to travel. The skin is of the darkest green and as hard as a board, a most unripe-looking object at all times. Indeed the only way one can find out the condition of a water-melon’s insides is by surgical operation. You simply cut out a plug about an inch square from the top side of the melon, and look to see if the flesh has turned crimson at the centre. If it is still white or pale pink you know the psychological moment, when the truly wise will eat the melon, has not yet arrived. Accordingly you put back the plug, and leave the sun to work a little longer on it, at a temperature of a hundred and twenty or so. Since it never rains at the melon season of the year, the plug does not do any harm if left on the top side, but the beginner sometimes leaves it on the lower side, with the result that all the water runs away. It is a curious fact, but the water of a melon, even of one picked in the middle of a scorching hot day, never seems tepid. It is always cool and refreshing, even at times when ordinary water tastes unutterably mawkish owing to the excessive heat. The crimson spongy flesh, specked with purple-black seeds, is eaten in moderation or in immoderation according to the taste of the individual, but the water is always greedily drunk up by everybody. The scorching winds of the plains seem to dry one’s very marrow, and nothing can exceed the thirst of a man who is obliged to be out all day in such weather and to work hard at the same time. Animals, too, suffer from extreme thirst, and after a morning’s ploughing when the farm horses are brought up to water, they drink and drink and drink, swelling visibly under one’s eye, as if they were india-rubber horses under the action of some new patent inflator. They are never stinted in their drink and swallow bucketsful before attacking their corn. But to return to our water-melons.