Pipe and Pouch Part 13

But they, however savagely he spoke, Made no reply.

Higher and thicker rose the clouds of smoke, And Kieft, perceiving that they would be free Tried not to put in force his harsh decree, But let it die.

_New York Sun_.

HER BROTHER'S CIGARETTE.

Like raven's wings her locks of jet, Her soft eyes touched with fond regret, Doubt and desire her mind beset, Fondling her brother's cigarette.

Roses with dewy diamonds set, Drooped o'er the window's parapet; With grace she turned a match to get, And lit her brother's cigarette.

Her puffs of smoky violet Twined in fantastic silhouette; She blushed, laughed, coughed a little, yet, She smoked her brother's cigarette.

Her eyes with briny tears were wet, Her bang grew limp beneath its net, Her brow was gemmed with beaded sweat, And to her bed she went, you bet.

ANON.

IN THE OL' TOBACKER PATCH.

I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to do, When I think about them days we used to spend A hoein' out tobacker in th' clearin'--me an' you-- An' a wis.h.i.+n' that the day was at an end.

For the dewdrops was a sparklin' on the beeches' tender leaves As we started out a workin' in the morn; An' th' noonday sun was sendin' down a shower of burnin' sheaves When we heard the welcome-soundin' dinner-horn.

An' th' shadders round us gathered in a sort of ghostly batch, 'Fore we started home from workin' in that ol' tobacker patch.

I'm a feelin' mighty lonesome, as I look aroun' to-day, For I see th' change that's taken place since then.

All th' hills is brown and faded, for th' woods is cleared away; You an' me has changed from ragged boys to men; You are livin' in th' city that we ust to dream about; I am still a dwellin' here upon the place, But my form is bent an' feeble, which was once so straight and stout, An' there's most a thousand wrinkles on my face.

You have made a mint of money; I, perhaps have been your match, But we both enjoyed life better in that ol' tobacker patch.

S.Q. LAPIUS.

MaeCENAS BIDS HIS FRIEND TO DINE.

I beg you come to-night and dine.

A welcome waits you, and sound wine,-- The Roederer chilly to a charm, As Juno's breath the claret warm, The sherry of an ancient brand.

No Persian pomp, you understand,-- A soup, a fish, two meats, and then A salad fit for aldermen (When aldermen, alas the days!

Were really worth their _mayonnaise_); A dish of grapes whose cl.u.s.ters won Their bronze in Carolinian sun; Next, cheese--for you the Neufchatel, A bit of Ches.h.i.+re likes me well; Cafe au lait or coffee black, With Kirsch or k.u.mmel or cognac (The German band in Irving Place By this time purple in the face); Cigars and pipes. These being through, Friends shall drop in, a very few-- Shakespeare and Milton, and no more.

When these are guests I bolt the door, With "Not at home" to any one Excepting Alfred Tennyson.

ANON.

TO MY MEERSCHAUM.

There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the quivering light of a star, In the flash of a silvery rill, Yet to me thou art lovelier far, My Meerschaum!

There's a love in her witching dark eye, There's a love in her tresses at play, Yet her love would be worth not a sigh, If from thee she could lure me away, My Meerschaum!

Let revellers sing of their wine, As they toss it in ecstasy down, But the bowl I call for is thine, With its deepening amber and brown, My Meerschaum!

For when trouble would bid me despair, I call for a flagon of beer, And puff a defiance to care, Till sorrows in smoke disappear, My Meerschaum!

Though mid pleasures unnumbered I whirl, Though I traverse the billowy sea, Yet the waving and beautiful curl Of thy smoke's ever dearer to me, My Meerschaum!

P.D.R.

OLD PIPE OF MINE.

Companion of my lonely hours, Full many a time 'twixt night and morn Thy muse hath roamed through poesy's bowers Upon thy fragrant pinions borne.

Let others seek the bliss that reigns In homage paid at beauty's shrine, We envy not such foolish gains, In sweet content, old pipe of mine.

Ah! you have been a travelled pipe; But now, of course, you're getting stale, Just like myself, and rather ripe; You've had your fill of cakes and ale, And half-forgotten memories, too.

And all the pensive thoughts that twine Around a past that, _entre nous_, Has pleasant been, old pipe of mine.

Old pipe of mine, for many a year What boon companions we have been!

With here a smile and there a tear, How many changes we have seen!

How many hearts have ceased to beat, How many eyes have ceased to s.h.i.+ne, How many friends will never meet, Since first we met, old pipe of mine!

Though here and there the road was deep, And now and then the rain would fall; We managed every time to keep A st.u.r.dy forehead to them all!

And even when she left my side, We didn't wait to fret or pine, Oh, no; we said the world was wide, And luck would turn, old pipe of mine!

CANNON SONG.

And it has turned since you and I Set out to face the world alone; And, in a garret near the sky, Had scarce a crust to call our own, But many a banquet, Barmecide; And many a dream of hope divine, Lie buried in the moaning tide, That drowns the past, old pipe of mine!

But prosing isn't quite the thing, And so, I guess, I'll give it up: Just wait a moment while I sing; We'll have another parting cup, And then to bed. The stars are low; Yon sickly moon has ceased to s.h.i.+ne; So here she goes, and off we go To Slumberland, old pipe of mine!

JOHN J. GORMLEY.