Familiar Faces Part 4

They are harmless little people, tame and quiet, Who will feed out of a fellow-creature's hand, If he happens to provide them with a diet Of a temperance and vegetable brand.

They can easily subsist--a thing to brag of-- In the draughtiest of sanitary huts, On a "mute inglorious Stilson" and a bag of Monkey-nuts.

Ev'ry faddist is, of course, an early riser; When he leaves his couch (at 6 a. m. perhaps) He will struggle with some patent "Exerciser,"

Until threatened with a physical collapse.

He wears collars made of cellular materials, And sandals in the place of leather boots, And his victuals are composed of either cereals Or roots.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Faddist_]

He believes in drinking quant.i.ties of water, Undiluted by the essence of the grape; And he deprecates the universal slaughter Of dumb animals in any form or shape.

So his breakfast-food (a patent, too, of course), is Made of oats which he monotonously chews, Mixed with chaff which any self-respecting horses Would refuse.

He discovers fatal microbes that are hiding In the liquids that his fellow creatures drink; Fell bacilli that are stealthily residing In our carpets, in our kisses, in our ink!

In his eagerness such parasites to smother, He will keep himself so sterilised and aired, That one fancies he would disinfect his mother, If he dared.

In a vegetarian restaurant you'll find him, Where he feeds, like any other anthropoid, Upon dishes which must certainly remind him Of the cocoanuts his ancestors enjoyed.

As he masticates his monkeyfood, you wonder If his humour is as meagre as his fare, And you look to see his tail depending under- -Neath his chair.

To his friends he never wearies of explaining The exact amount of times they ought to chew, The advantages of "totally abstaining,"

And the joys of walking barefoot in the dew; How that slumber must be summoned circ.u.mspectly, In an att.i.tude conducive to repose, And that breathing should be carried on correctly Through the nose.

A pathetic little figure is my hero, With a spa.r.s.e and wizened beard, and straggly hair, Upon which is perched a sort of a sombrero Such as operatic brigands love to wear.

He may eat the nuts his prehistoric sires ate, He may flourish upon sawdust mixed with bran, But he looks more like a Nonconformist pirate Than a man!

IX

THE COLONEL

Observe him, in the best armchair, At ev'ry "Service" Club reclining!

How brightly through its close-cropped hair!

His polished skull is shining!

His form, inert and comatose, Suggests a stertorous repose.

What strains are these that echo clear?

What music on our ears is falling?

Through his aeolian nose we hear The distant East a-calling.

(A good example here is found Of slumber that is truly "sound.")

He dreams of India's coral strand, Where, camping by the Jimjam River, He sacrificed his figure and The best part of his liver, And, in some fever-stricken hole, Mislaid his pow'rs of self-control.

Blow lightly on his head, and note Its surface change from chrome to hectic; Examine that pneumatic throat, That visage apoplectic.

His colour-scheme is of the type That plums affect when over-ripe.

With rising gorge he stands erect, Awakened by your indiscretion, Becoming slowly Dunlop-necked-- (To coin a new expression); Where stud and collar form a juncture, You contemplate immediate puncture.

His head, like some inverted cup, Ascends, a Phoenix, from its ashes; His eyebrows rise and beckon up His "porterhouse" moustaches;[A]

And you acknowledge, as you flinch, That he's a Colonel--ev'ry inch!

The voice that once in strident tones Across the barrack-square could carry, Reverberates and megaphones A rich vocabulary.

(His "rude forefathers," you'll agree, Were never half so rude as he.)

As blatantly he catalogues The grievances from which he suffers:-- "The Service gone, sir, to the dogs!"

"The men, sir, all damduffers!"

In so invet'rate a complainer You recognise the "old champaigner."

His raven locks (just two or three) Recall their retrospective splendour; One of the brave Old Guard is he, That dyes but won't surrender; With fits of petulance afflicted, When questioned, crossed, or contradicted.

But as, alas! from poor-man's gout, Combined with chronic indigestion, The breed is quickly dying out-- (The fact admits no question)-- I'll give you, if advice you're taking, A _recipe_ for Colonel-making.

_Select some subaltern whose tone Is bluff and anything but "soul-y;"

Transplant him to a torrid zone; There leave him stewing slowly; Remove his liver and his hair, Then serve up hot in an armchair._

[Footnote A: Cf. "mutton-chop" whiskers.]

X

THE WAITER

"He also serves who only stands and waits!"

My hero does all three, and even more.

Bearing a dozen food-congested plates, With silent tread (altho' his feet are sore), He swiftly skates across the parquet floor.

None can afford completely to ignore him, Because, of course, he "carries all before him!"

Endowed with some of Cinquevalli's charm, He poises plate on plate, and never swerves; Two in each hand, three more up either arm,-- A feat of balancing which tries the nerves Of the least timid customer he serves.

So firm his carriage, and his gait so stable, He is the Blondin of the dinner-table.

Rising abruptly at the break of day (A custom more might copy, I confess), The waiter hastens, with the least delay, To don that unbecoming evening-dress Which etiquette compels him to possess.

('Tis too the conjurer's accustomed habit, Whence he evolves a goldfish or a rabbit.)

Each calling its especial trademark bears.

The anarchist parades a red cravat; The eminent physician always wears A stethoscope concealed within his hat; A diamond stud proclaims the plutocrat; The rural dean displays a sable gaiter, And evening dress distinguishes the waiter.

Time was when he was elderly and staid, With long sidewhiskers and an old-world air.

How gently, with what rev'rent hands, he laid A bottle of some vintage rich and rare Within a pail of ice beneath your chair, Like some proud steward in a hall baronial Performing an important ceremonial.

How cultured his well-modulated voice, His manner how _distingue_ and discreet, As he directed your capricious choice To what 'twere best and pleasantest to eat, Or warmly recommended the Lafitte.

A perfect pattern of the _genus h.o.m.o_, More like a bishop than a major-domo.

He kept as grave as the proverbial tomb When in some haven "hush'd and safe apart,"

You sought the shelter of a private room, To entertain the lady of your heart At a delightful dinner _a la carte_.

(The consequences would, he knew, be shocking Were he perchance to enter without knocking.)