Pipe and Pouch Part 11

Says Jack, says he, "The Injins think--"

Says Tom, "I'll swear as they Don't think at all." Says d.i.c.k, "You're right; It ain't their nat'ral way.

But I want to find out, my lads, This stuff of which they tell; For if as it ain't meant to drink, Why, it must be meant to smell."

Says Tom, says he, "To drink or smell, I don't think this here's meant."

Says Jack, says he, "Blame my old eyes, If I'll believe it's scent."

"Well, then," says d.i.c.k, "if that ain't square, It must be meant for meat; So come along, my jovial mates, To find what's good to eat."

They came across a great big plant, A-growing tall and true.

Says Jack, says he, "I'm precious dry,"

And picked a leaf to chew.

While Tom takes up a sun-dried bit, A-lying by the trees; He rubs it in his hands to dust And then begins to sneeze.

Another leaf picks nimble d.i.c.k, And dries it in the sun, And rolls it up all neat and tight.

"My lads," says he, in fun, "I mean to cook this precious weed."

And then from out his poke With burning-gla.s.s he lights the end, And quick blows up the smoke.

Says Jack, says he, "Of Paradise I've heerd some people tell."

Says Tom, says he, "This here will do; Let's have another smell."

Says d.i.c.k, his face all pleasant smiles, A-looking through a cloud, "It strikes me here's the cap'en bold, And now we'll all be rowed."

Up comes brave Hawkins on the beach; "s.h.i.+ver my hull!" he cries, "What's these here games, my merry men?"

And then, "Why, blame my eyes!

Here's one as chaws, and one as snuffs, And t' other of the three Is smoking like a chimbley-pot-- They've found out Tobac-kee!"

So if ever you should hear Of Raleigh, and them lies About his sarvant and his pipe And him as "Fire!" cries, You say as 'twas three sailors bold As sailed to Virgin-ee In brave old Hawkins' gallant s.h.i.+p Who found out Tobac-kee.

A lurch to starboard, one to port, Now forrard, boys, go we, With a haul and a "Ho!" and a "That's your sort!"

To find out Tobac-kee.

_Cigar and Tobacco World_, London.

"KEATS TOOK SNUFF."

"Keats took snuff.... It has been established by the praise-worthy editorial research of Mr. Burton Forman."

So "Keats took snuff?" A few more years, When we are dead and famous--eh?

Will they record our pipes and beers, And if we smoked cigars or clay?

Or will the world cry "Quantum suff"

To tattle such as "Keats took snuff"?

Perhaps some chronicler would wish To know what whiskey we preferred, And if we ever dined on fish, Or only took the joint and bird.

Such facts are quite as worthy stuff, Good chronicler, as "Keats took snuff."

You answer: "But, if you were Keats--"

Tut! never mind your buts and ifs, Of little men record their meats, Their drinks, their troubles, and their tiffs, Of the great dead there's gold enough To spare us such as "Keats took snuff."

Well, go your ways, you little folk, Who polish up the great folk's lives; Record the follies that they spoke, And paint their squabbles with their wives.

Somewhere, if ever ghosts be gruff, I trust some Keats will "give you snuff."

_The Globe_, London.

THE BALLAD OF THE PIPE.

Oh, give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a stem of reed, What care I for the weather?

Though winter freeze and summer broil We rest us from our days of toil My Pipe and I together!

Like to a priest of sacred fane, I nightly light the glow again With reverence and pleasure; For through this plain and modest bowl I coax sweet mem'ry to my soul And many trippings measure!

There's comfort in each puff of smoke, Defiance to ill-fortune's stroke And happiness forever!

There grows a volume full of thought And humor, than the book you bought Holds nothing half so clever!

The summer fragrance, all pent up Among the leaves, is here sent up In dreams of summer glory; And these blue clouds that slowly rise Were colored by the summer skies, And tell a summer story.

And oh! the happiest, sweetest times Come ringing all their silver chimes Of merry songs and laughter; And all that may be well and worth For Mother Future to bring forth I do imagine after.

What care I if my poor means Clad not my walls with splendid scenes And pictures by the masters; Here in the curling smoke-wreath glow Bold hills and lovely vales below, And brooks with nodding asters.

All that on earth is fair and fine, This fragrant magic makes it mine, And gives me sole dominion; And if you call me fanciful, I only take a stronger pull, And laugh at your opinion.

Let others fret and fume with care, 'Tis easy finding everywhere, But happiness is rarer; And if I find it sweet and ripe, In this tobacco and my pipe, I'll count it all the fairer.

Then give me but Virginia's weed, An earthen bowl, a stem of reed, What care I for the weather?

Though winter freeze, or summer broil We rest us from the days of toil, My Pipe and I together.

HERMANN RAVE.

THE OLD CLAY PIPE.

There's a lot of solid comfort In an old clay pipe, I find, If you're kind of out of humor Or in trouble in your mind.

When you're feeling awful lonesome And don't know just what to do, There's a heap of satisfaction If you smoke a pipe or two.

The ten thousand pleasant memories That are buried in your soul Are playing hide and seek with you Around that smoking bowl.

These are mighty restful moments: You're at peace with all the world, And the panorama changes As the thin blue smoke is curled.

Now you cross the bridge of sorrows, Now you enter pleasant lands, And before an open doorway, You will linger to shake hands With a lithe and girlish figure That is coming through the door; Ah! you recognize the features: You have seen that face before.

You are at the dear old homestead Where you spent those happy years; You are romping with the children; You are smiling through your tears; You have fought and whipped the bully You are eight and he is ten.