Johnnyboy

"Johnnyboy" is a short story by Bret Harte, set in the American West during the late 19th century. The narrative revolves around the character of Johnnyboy, a young boy navigating the challenges of frontier life. Known for his adventurous spirit and innocence, Johnnyboy encounters various figures that shape his understanding of bravery, loyalty, and the complexities of adult life. Harte's vivid storytelling and rich character development offer a poignant reflection on childhood and the transition into maturity within the rugged backdrop of the Gold Rush era. The story captures themes of resilience, the harsh realities of pioneering life, and the enduring spirit of youth.

• Short story

								
The vast dining-room of the Crustacean Hotel at Greyport, U. S., was
empty and desolate. It was so early in the morning that there was a
bedroom deshabille in the tucked-up skirts and bare legs of the
little oval breakfast-tables as they had just been left by the dusting
servants. The most stirring of travelers was yet abed, the most
enterprising of first-train catchers had not yet come down; there was
a breath of midsummer sleep still in the air; through the half-opened
windows that seemed to be yawning, the pinkish blue Atlantic beyond
heaved gently and slumberously, and drowsy early bathers crept into it
as to bed. Yet as I entered the room I saw that one of the little
tables in the corner was in reality occupied by a very small and very
extraordinary child. Seated in a high chair, attended by a dreamily
abstracted nurse on one side, an utterly perfunctory negro waiter on the
other, and an incongruous assortment of disregarded viands before
him, he was taking--or, rather, declining--his solitary breakfast. He
appeared to be a pale, frail, but rather pretty boy, with a singularly
pathetic combination of infant delicacy of outline and maturity of
expression. His heavily fringed eyes expressed an already weary and
discontented intelligence, and his willful, resolute little mouth was, I
fancied, marked with lines of pain at either corner. He struck me as not
only being physically dyspeptic, but as morally loathing his attendants
and surroundings.

My entrance did not disturb the waiter, with whom I had no financial
relations; he simply concealed an exaggerated yawn professionally behind
his napkin until my own servitor should appear. The nurse slightly awoke
from her abstraction, shoved the child mechanically,--as if starting
up some clogged machinery,--said, "Eat your breakfast, Johnnyboy," and
subsided into her dream. I think the child had at first some faint hope
of me, and when my waiter appeared with my breakfast he betrayed some
interest in my selection, with a view of possible later appropriation,
but, as my repast was simple, that hope died out of his infant mind.
Then there was a silence, broken at last by the languid voice of the
nurse:--

"Try some milk then--nice milk."

"No! No mik! Mik makes me sick--mik does!"

In spite of the hurried infantine accent the protest was so emphatic,
and, above all, fraught with such pent-up reproach and disgust, that I
turned about sympathetically. But Johnnyboy had already thrown down his
spoon, slipped from his high chair, and was marching out of the room as
fast as his little sandals would carry him, with indignation bristling
in every line of the crisp bows of his sash.

I, however, gathered from Mr. Johnson, my waiter, that the unfortunate
child owned a fashionable father and mother, one or two blocks of
houses in New York, and a villa at Greyport, which he consistently and
intelligently despised. That he had imperiously brought his parents
here on account of his health, and had demanded that he should breakfast
alone in the big dining-room. That, however, he was not happy. "Nuffin
peahs to agree wid him, Sah, but he doan' cry, and he speaks his mind,
Sah; he speaks his mind."

Unfortunately, I did not keep Johnnyboy's secret, but related the scene
I had witnessed to some of the lighter-hearted Crustaceans of either
sex, with the result that his alliterative protest became a sort of
catchword among them, and that for the next few mornings he had a large
audience of early breakfasters, who fondly hoped for a repetition of
his performance. I think that Johnnyboy for the time enjoyed
this companionship, yet without the least affectation or
self-consciousness--so long as it was unobtrusive. It so chanced,
however, that the Rev. Mr. Belcher, a gentleman with bovine lightness
of touch, and a singular misunderstanding of childhood, chose to
presume upon his paternal functions. Approaching the high chair in which
Johnnyboy was dyspeptically reflecting, with a ponderous wink at the
other guests, and a fat thumb and forefinger on Johnnyboy's table, he
leaned over him, and with slow, elephantine playfulness said:--

"And so, my dear young friend, I understand that 'mik makes you
sick--mik does.'"

Anything approaching to the absolute likeness of this imitation of
Johnnyboy's accents it is impossible to conceive. Possibly Johnnyboy
felt it. But he simply lifted his lovely lashes, and said with great
distinctness:--

"Mik don't--you devil!"

After this, closely as it had knitted us together, Johnnyboy's morning
presence was mysteriously withdrawn. It was later pointed out to us by
Mr. Belcher, upon the veranda, that, although Wealth had its privileges,
it was held in trust for the welfare of Mankind, and that the children
of the Rich could not too early learn the advantages of Self-restraint
and the vanity of a mere gratification of the Senses. Early and frequent
morning ablutions, brisk morning toweling, half of a Graham biscuit in
a teacup of milk, exercise with the dumb-bells, and a little
rough-and-tumble play in a straw hat, check apron, and overalls would
eventually improve that stamina necessary for his future Position, and
repress a dangerous cerebral activity and tendency to give way to--He
suddenly stopped, coughed, and absolutely looked embarrassed. Johnnyboy,
a moving cloud of white pique, silk, and embroidery, had just turned
the corner of the veranda. He did not speak, but as he passed raised
his blue-veined lids to the orator. The look of ineffable scorn and
superiority in those beautiful eyes surpassed anything I had ever seen.
At the next veranda column he paused, and, with his baby thumbs inserted
in his silk sash, again regarded him under his half-dropped lashes as
if he were some curious animal, and then passed on. But Belcher was
silenced for the second time.

I think I have said enough to show that Johnnyboy was hopelessly
worshiped by an impressible and illogical sex. I say HOPELESSLY, for
he slipped equally from the proudest silken lap and the humblest one
of calico, and carried his eyelashes and small aches elsewhere. I think
that a secret fear of his alarming frankness, and his steady rejection
of the various tempting cates they offered him, had much to do with
their passion. "It won't hurt you, dear," said Miss Circe, "and it's so
awfully nice. See!" she continued, putting one of the delicacies in
her own pretty mouth with every assumption of delight. "It's SO good!"
Johnnyboy rested his elbows on her knees, and watched her with a grieved
and commiserating superiority. "Bimeby, you'll have pains in youse
tommick, and you'll be tookt to bed," he said sadly, "and then
you'll--have to dit up and"--But as it was found necessary here to
repress further details, he escaped other temptation.

Two hours later, as Miss Circe was seated in the drawing-room with her
usual circle of enthusiastic admirers around her, Johnnyboy--who was

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes