His wants were inquired into, and, like all the humbler class of men, who think that unless they have been living on hog and hominy they are starved, he complained of not having eaten anything “for three mortal weeks.”
“A Rose by any other name,” &c.
In the present state of the kitchen larder, there was certainly not much of a choice, and I was as yet ignorant of the capabilities of the steward’s department. However, soup was suggested, as a great soother of “misery in his back,” and a generous supply of adjectives prefixed for flavor—“nice, hot, good chicken soup.” The suggestion was received kindly. If it was very nice he would take some: “he was never, though, much of a hand for drinks.” My mind rejected the application of words, but matter not mind, was the subject under consideration.
All my gastronomic experience revolted against soup without the sick man’s parsley; and Jim, my acting partner, volunteered to get some at a mysterious place he always called “The Dutchman’s,” so at last, armed with a bowl full of the decoction, duly salted, peppered, and seasoned, I again sought my first patient.
Snubbed.
He rose deliberately—so deliberately that I felt sensible of the great favor he was conferring. He smoothed his tangled locks with a weak hand, took a piece of well-masticated tobacco from between three or four solitary teeth, but still the soup was unappropriated, and it appeared evident that some other preliminaries were to be arranged. The novelty of my position, added to a lively imagination, suggested fears that he might think it necessary to arise for compliment sake; and hospital clothing being made to suit the scarcity and expense of homespun, the idea was startling. But my suspense did not continue long; he was only seeking for a brown-covered tract hid under his pillow.
Did he intend to read grace before meat? No, he simply wanted a pocket-handkerchief, which cruel war had denied; so without comment a leaf was quietly abstracted and used for that purpose. The result was satisfactory, for the next moment the bowl was taken from my hand, and the first spoonful of soup transmitted to his mouth.
It was an awful minute! My fate seemed to hang upon the fiat of that uneducated palate. A long painful gulp, a “judgmatical” shake of the head, not in the affirmative, and the bowl traveled slowly back to my extended hand.
His Mammy’s Soup.
“My mammy’s soup was not like that,” he whined. “But I might worry a little down if it war’n’t for them weeds a-floating round.”