Garcon

And, harkee, garcon! let the blood Of cobwebbed years be spilt for him-- Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood This piscatorial pride should swim; So, were he living, he should say He gladly died for me and mine, And, as it was his native spray, He'd lash the sauce--What, ho! the wine!

The garcon was a small man in the fifties, inclined to corpulence, with a large head, large, blue-gray eyes, purplish lips, and blue-black hair cut pompadour.

One day Henri, the garcon, murmured confidentially, as she left the cafe after a particularly slim meal: "These thin little blondes, they do not last long.