And it was pleasant to sit there on a
summer morning over an omelette and bacon, coffee such as no other
Little Arcadian ever drank, and beaten biscuit beyond the skill of any
in our vale save the stout, short-statured, elderly black man who served
me with the grace of an Ambassador. Moreover, I was glad to please him,
and please him it did to set the little table back against the wall of
vines, to place my chair in the shaded corner, and to fetch the
incomparable results of his cookery from the kitchen, couched and
covered in snowy napkins against the morning breeze.
John Randolph Clement Tuckerman he was; Mr. Tuckerman to many simple
souls of our town, and "Clem" to me, after our intimacy became such as
to warrant this form of address. A little, tightly kinked, grizzled
mustache gave a tone to his face. His hair, well retreated up his
forehead, was of the same close-woven salt-and-pepper mixture. His eyes
were wells of ink when the light fell into them,--sad, kind eyes, that
gave his face a look of patient service long and toilsomely, but
lovingly bestowed. It is a look telling of kindness that has endured and
triumphed--a look of submission in which suffering has once burned, but
has consumed itself.
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