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141
DOCTOR McGEE.
In a cosy hotel in great London, G. B.,
One winter quite lately, Fate chanced to decree
I should stay for awhile—and I could but agree.
It was not in “the season,” and consequently
There were few fellow-lodgers to speak to, or see.
In the coffee-room there (where, quite lucky for me,
The guest is by no means restricted from tea,
Or chocolate, or milk, but may have them all three,
By ringing for Lucy, and biding a wee—)
I noticed one day, on the prim mantel-tree,
Between two pink vases of lofty degree,—
The servant declared they were “real Japanee”—
A letter, directed to “Dr. McGee,
Number sixty-one, Norfolk street, W. C.”
In a pretty hand-writing, neat, graceful and free;
On the corner was written, as fine as could be,
“To await the arrival of Dr. McGee.”
And I absently wondered, while drinking my tea,
What manner of man the new-comer would be,
Who might drop in, to-morrow, and breakfast with me.
But the letter remained there—two days, and then three,
A week, two weeks vanished, like foam on the sea,
And morn after morn, as I poured out my tea,
I glanced at the note on the prim mantel-tree,
And pondered and wondered—and waited to see
Why it never was called for by Dr. McGee.
One winter quite lately, Fate chanced to decree
I should stay for awhile—and I could but agree.
It was not in “the season,” and consequently
There were few fellow-lodgers to speak to, or see.
In the coffee-room there (where, quite lucky for me,
The guest is by no means restricted from tea,
Or chocolate, or milk, but may have them all three,
By ringing for Lucy, and biding a wee—)
I noticed one day, on the prim mantel-tree,
Between two pink vases of lofty degree,—
The servant declared they were “real Japanee”—
A letter, directed to “Dr. McGee,
Number sixty-one, Norfolk street, W. C.”
In a pretty hand-writing, neat, graceful and free;
On the corner was written, as fine as could be,
“To await the arrival of Dr. McGee.”
And I absently wondered, while drinking my tea,
What manner of man the new-comer would be,
Who might drop in, to-morrow, and breakfast with me.
But the letter remained there—two days, and then three,
142
And morn after morn, as I poured out my tea,
I glanced at the note on the prim mantel-tree,
And pondered and wondered—and waited to see
Why it never was called for by Dr. McGee.
Who was he,
This Dr. McGee,
This Dr. McGee,
Who was not where he was expected to be?
Was he Doctor of Laws, or a simple M. D.?
Or a travelling quack, with extortionate fee?
Was he native, or born in some foreign countree?
French, Scotch, German, Irish, or wild Cherokee?
Or an ill-growing sprig of some noble old tree,
With a new name wherever he happened to be?
Was he wealthy and gouty, as often we see,
Or poor and rheumatic? or youthful, and free
From all the sore ailments which time may decree?
Was he bluff and big-whiskered, as doctors may be,
Or dapper, mild-mannered, and brisk as a flea?
Was he curled like Hyperion, or bald as a pea?
Would he ever appear and decide it? or be
Forever and ever a sealed mystery?
Was he Doctor of Laws, or a simple M. D.?
Or a travelling quack, with extortionate fee?
Was he native, or born in some foreign countree?
French, Scotch, German, Irish, or wild Cherokee?
Or an ill-growing sprig of some noble old tree,
With a new name wherever he happened to be?
Was he wealthy and gouty, as often we see,
Or poor and rheumatic? or youthful, and free
From all the sore ailments which time may decree?
Was he bluff and big-whiskered, as doctors may be,
Or dapper, mild-mannered, and brisk as a flea?
Was he curled like Hyperion, or bald as a pea?
Would he ever appear and decide it? or be
Forever and ever a sealed mystery?
Where could he be,
Poor Dr. McGee?
Poor Dr. McGee?
Had he perished by shipwreck in yonder great sea?
Was he ill in some hospital? dying, may be,
With no fond friend near to console him, or see
That his pillow was smooth, and his breathing-space free,
And his medicines given him regularly?
It troubled my thoughts, and quite wore upon me,
The possible fate of poor Dr. McGee,
As day after day came, but never came he.
Was he ill in some hospital? dying, may be,
With no fond friend near to console him, or see
That his pillow was smooth, and his breathing-space free,
And his medicines given him regularly?
It troubled my thoughts, and quite wore upon me,
The possible fate of poor Dr. McGee,
As day after day came, but never came he.
143
But might it not be
That by Fortune's decree,
That by Fortune's decree,
It was joy, and not woe, that kept Dr. McGee?
Thus often I mused, in a happier key—
Perhaps his good star had arisen, and he
Of some wealthy nabob was sole legatee,
And was counting the worth of an Indian rupee,
Or busily reckoning l. s. and d.;
Or, as Christmas was coming, and holiday glee
Was rife all through England, from centre to sea,
Perhaps in some pleasant home drawing-room he
Was planning the growth of a tall Christmas-tree,
While rosy-cheeked boys and girls, one, two and three
Were pulling his whiskers and climbing his knee,
Till, entering into their innocent spree,
He quite forgot how this poor letter might be
Neglected in Norfolk street, W. C.
But Christmas departed, with “boxing” and fee,
And the letter that lay on the prim mantel-tree,
And that once was as white as the lamb on the lea—
Grew yellow with waiting—as often, ah, me,
Befalls those who wait till hope's rosy tints flee.
And I left it there still, when I took my last tea,
Handed Lucy the coin she expected to see,
And paid my last reckoning, and gave up my key,
And went to the station at quarter past three.
And though I may wander by desert and sea,
No matter what marvels may happen to me,
I never shall know, wheresoe'er I may be,
Who, when, why, or where, about Dr. McGee.
Thus often I mused, in a happier key—
Perhaps his good star had arisen, and he
Of some wealthy nabob was sole legatee,
And was counting the worth of an Indian rupee,
Or busily reckoning l. s. and d.;
Or, as Christmas was coming, and holiday glee
Was rife all through England, from centre to sea,
Perhaps in some pleasant home drawing-room he
Was planning the growth of a tall Christmas-tree,
While rosy-cheeked boys and girls, one, two and three
Were pulling his whiskers and climbing his knee,
Till, entering into their innocent spree,
He quite forgot how this poor letter might be
Neglected in Norfolk street, W. C.
But Christmas departed, with “boxing” and fee,
And the letter that lay on the prim mantel-tree,
And that once was as white as the lamb on the lea—
Grew yellow with waiting—as often, ah, me,
Befalls those who wait till hope's rosy tints flee.
And I left it there still, when I took my last tea,
Handed Lucy the coin she expected to see,
And paid my last reckoning, and gave up my key,
And went to the station at quarter past three.
And though I may wander by desert and sea,
No matter what marvels may happen to me,
I never shall know, wheresoe'er I may be,
Who, when, why, or where, about Dr. McGee.
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