Pipe and Pouch Part 21

THOSE ASHES.

Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette In a sinuous spray is reeling, Forming flower and minaret.

What delicious landscape floating On perfumed wings I see; Pale swans I am idly noting, And queens robed in filagree.

I see such delicious faces As ne'er man saw before, And my fancy fondly chases Sweet maids on a fairy sh.o.r.e.

Now to bits my air-castle crashes, And those pictures I see no more; My grandmother yells: "Them ashes-- Don't drop them on the floor!"

R.K. MUNKITTRICK.

WHAT I LIKE.

To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream, Upon the gra.s.sy bank of some calm stream-- And smoke.

To climb with daring feet some rugged rock, And sit aloft where gulls and curlews flock-- And smoke.

To wander lonely on the ocean's brink, And of the good old times to muse and think-- And smoke.

To hide me in some deep and woody glen, Far from unhealthy haunts of sordid men-- And smoke.

To linger in some fairy haunted vale, While all about me falls the moonlight pale-- And smoke.

H.L.

MY MEERSCHAUMS.

Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved, High carved and plain, dark-hued and creamy, Slim tubes for cigarettes reserved, And stout ones for Havanas dreamy.

This cricket, on an amber spear Impaled, recalls that golden weather When love and I, too young to fear Heartburn, smoked cigarettes together.

And even now--too old to take The little papered shams for flavor-- I light it oft for her sweet sake Who gave it, with her girlish favor.

And here's the mighty student bowl Whose tutoring in and after college Has led me nearer wisdom's goal Than all I learned of text-book knowledge.

"It taught me?" Ay, to hold my tongue, To keep a-light, and yet burn slowly, To break ill spells around me flung As with the enchanted whiff of Moly.

This nargileh, whose hue betrays Perique from soft Louisiana, In Egypt once beguiled the days Of Tewfik's dreamy-eyed Sultana.

Speaking of color,--do you know A maid with eyes as darkly splendid As are the hues that, rich and slow, On this Hungarian bowl have blended?

Can artist paint the fiery glints Of this quaint finger here beside it, With amber nail,--the l.u.s.trous tints, A thousand Partagas have dyed it?

"And this old silver patched affair?"

Well, sir, that meerschaum has its reasons For showing marks of time and wear; For in its smoke through fifty seasons

My grandsire blew his cares away!

And then, when done with life's sojourning, At seventy-five dropped dead one day, That pipe between his set teeth burning!

"Killed him?" No doubt! it's apt to kill In fifty year's incessant using-- Some twenty pipes a day. And still, On that ripe, well-filled, lifetime musing,

I envy oft so bright a part,-- To live as long as life's a treasure; To die of--not an aching heart, But--half a century of pleasure!

Well, well! I'm boring you, no doubt; How these old memories will undo one-- I see you've let your weed go out; That's wrong! Here, light yourself a new one!

CHARLES F. LUMMIS.

ODE TO TOBACCO.

Thou, who when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is gray; Sweet when they've cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest!

I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told Not to thy credit: How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost,-- Useless, except to roast-- Doctors have said it;

How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards, Go mad, and beat their wives, Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving-knives Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!

Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors,-- Jones, who, I'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J., Daily absorbs a clay After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco juice; Still, why deny its use Thoughtfully taken?

We're not as tabbies are; Smith, take a fresh cigar!

Jones, the tobacco jar!

Here's to thee, Bacon!

C.S. CALVERLY.

ON RECEIPT OF A RARE PIPE.

I lifted off the lid with anxious care, Removed the wrappages, stripe after stripe, And when the hidden contents were laid bare, My first remark was: "Mercy, what a pipe!"

A pipe of symmetry that matched its size, Mounted with metal bright,--a sight to see; With the rich amber hue that smokers prize, Attesting both its age and pedigree.

A pipe to make the royal Friedrich jealous, Or the great Teufelsdrockh with envy gripe!