BRIEF MUSINGS.

Southland Times, Issue 19514, 13 May 1922, Page 11

BRIEF MUSINGS.

BEING THE STRAY THOUGHTS OF AN EGOTIST. NO. 10. There were tears in his eyes as he bade me farewell, and that Scots accent of his blended in a pathetic harmony with the tremor that seemed to come from far down. “Man,” he said, “write me every week and let me know where you are and how you are.” And, when he reluctantly boarded the train just as it moved away, he assured me in emphatic tones that he would look for my letters. And when the train swept round the bend and out of sight the last figure I saw was his leaning far out of the window and turned in my direction. If he had jumped from the carriage with the idea of returning to me I should not have been greatly surprised, for in his veins coursed the blood of men of that wonderful little Scotia who acted impulsively and cared little for danger where love was concerned ; and I owed him ten shillings The doctor felt my pulse, looked at my tongue, instructed me to turn up an eye, made me inhale and exhale long breaths while he “sounded” me with an instrument that was badly in need of warming, drew his eyes together, pulled a thoughtful face and asked me what I ate. What a question is that to ask a man in a community singularly free from dietic faddists ! How many people are there among those who eat and enjoy, and, having eaten, think no more about the feast, who could suddenly tell you even a short half hour after their dinner on what they had dined ? If the question presents difficulties to the man just risen from his meal, how much more hard is it, without warning, to summon to the mind all the constituents of that vague quantity that we humbly call our daily bread ! Perhaps it is a task that the gourmand could accomplish with credit, and perhaps the boarder in many cases could also fill the bill. But I am not one to gloat over the memory of feasts long past, nor is it my lot to know “the weekly round” of which some bardic victims of “superior board and lodgings” have written. And so I was confronted by a poser. Certainly I knew' that I ate a whole lot and a variety, but beyond that fact my mind did not seem disposed to take me. Strenuously I strove to think, but no names would come, only floated before my inner eye, as if buoyed on waves of ether, a miscellany that seemed familiar enough in a way to the senses, but which resisted all my efforts at classification. With strained interest I watched this pageant, which I have since recognised as consisting of succulent joints, roast ducks, baked fish, plum puddings, jellies, trifles and endless other items such as constitute the food of man. Suddenly a happy thought broke through my humiliating confusion and helplessness: I would resort to the alphabet. . . . A—“ Apples,” I hazarded uncertainly. “Umph!” ejaculated the doctor—a wonderfully expressive “umph” into which I read a whole wealth of contempt. . . .

B — What in the world did “b” stand for? Nothing, I decided, and came out with “cakes and carrots” on reaching “c.” The medico grunted again, even more emphatically, just as, on coming to “d,” I nearly said “doctors.” I gave “e” scant notice, and, for “f” announced “fruit” with a feeling of accomplishment. When “g” had suggested “groceries,” the doctor put forth a restraining hand, and, very quietly, as if expecting a negative answer, asked, “Are you quite sane?” Was I? The question was a shock but it was also a relief, taking my attention from my feverish attempt to associate the letters of the alphabet with the things I eat. Even as I was trying to decide on my answer, the doctor broke out, “Eat meat in moderation, milk puddings, brown bread, fish and fruit in plenty, walk ten miles a day, a guinea please, goodbye.” And then my memory was restored, for the dishes he had named were those nearest my heart, and those of which I ate the most. W. D. M.