Pipe and Pouch Part 17

MY PIPE AND I.

There may be comrades in this world, As stanch and true as steel.

There are: and by their friendships firm Is life made only real.

But, after all, of all these hearts That close with mine entwine, None lie so near, nor seem so dear As this old pipe of mine.

My silent friend--whose voice is held Fast for my ear alone-- Stays with me always, well content, With Darby to be Joan.

No fickleness disturbs our lot; No jars its peace to smother; Ah, no; my faithful pipe and I Have wooed and won--each other.

On clouds of curling incense sweet, We go--my pipe and I-- To lands far off, where skies stay blue Through all the years that fly.

And nights and days, with rosy dreams Teems bright--an endless throng That pa.s.sing leave, in echoing wake, Soft murmurings of song.

Does this dream fade? Another comes To fill its place and more.

In castles silvern roam we now, They're ours! All! All are ours!

What'er the wreathing rings enfold Drops shimmering golden showers!

No sordid cost our steps can stay, We travel free as air.

Our wings are fancies, incense-borne, That feather-light upbear.

Begone! ye powers of steam and flood.

Thy roads creep far too slow; We need thee not. My pipe and I Swifter than Time must go.

Why, what is this? The pipe gone out?

Well, well, the fire's out, too!

The dreams are gone--we're poor once more; Life's pain begins anew.

'Tis time for sleep, my faithful pipe, But may thy dreamings be, Through slumbering hours hued as bright As those thou gav'st to me!

ELTON J. BUCKLEY.

SIC TRANSIT.

Just a note that I found on my table, By the bills of a year buried o'er, In a feminine hand and requesting My presence for tennis at four.

Half remorseful for leaving it lying In surroundings unworthy as those, I carefully dusted and smoothed it, And mutely begged pardon of Rose.

But I thought with a smile of the proverb Which says you may treat as you will The vase which has once contained roses, Their fragrance will cling to it still.

For the writer I scarcely remember, The occasion has vanished afar, And the fragrance that clings to the letter Recalls--an Havana cigar.

W.B. ANDERSON.

THE BETROTHED.

"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._"

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot, And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a s.p.a.ce; In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at,--Maggie's a loving la.s.s, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pa.s.s.

There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay, But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away,--

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown,-- But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie my wife at fifty,--gray and dour and old,-- With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the b.u.t.t of a dead cigar,--

The b.u.t.t of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket,-- With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket.

Open the old cigar-box,--let me consider a while,-- Here is a mild Manilla,--there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion,--bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, With only a _Suttee's_ pa.s.sion,--to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy, who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great G.o.d Nick o' Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelve-month clear.

But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the mire?

Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?