In honeydew had steeped my soul
    Had been of cherry pipes a cracker,
  And watched the creamy meerschaum’s bowl
    Grow weekly, daily, hourly blacker.

  Read CALVERLEY and learnt by heart
    The lines he celebrates the weed in;
  And blew my smoke in rings, an art
    That many try, but few succeed in.

  In fact of nearly every style
    Of smoke I was a kindly critic,
  Though I had found Manillas vile,
    And Trichinopolis mephitic.

  The stout tobacco-jar became
    Within my smoking-room a fixture;
  I heard my friends extol by name
    Each one his own peculiar mixture.

  And tried them every one in turn
    (O varium, tobacco, semper!);
  The strong I found too apt to burn
    My tongue, the week to try my temper.

  And all were failures, and I grew
    More tentative and undecided,
  Consulted friends, and found they knew
    As little as or less than I did.

  Havannah yielded up her pick
    Of prime cigars to my fruition;
  I bought a case, and some went “sick.” 
    The rest were never in condition.

  Until in sheer fatigue I turned
    To you, tobacco’s white-robed tyro,
  And from your golden legend learned
    Your maker dwelt and wrought in Cairo.

  O worshipped wheresoe’er I roam,
    As fondly as a wife by some is,
  Waif from the far Egyptian home
    Of Pharaohs, crocodiles, and mummies;

  Beloved, in spite of jeer and frown;
    The more the Philistines assail you,
  The more the doctors run you down,
    The more I puff you—­and inhale you.

  Though worn with toil and vexed with strife
    (Ye smokers all, attend and hear me),
  Undaunted still I live my life,
    With you, my Cigarette, to cheer me.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  SOMETHING WRONG SOMEWHERE.

“HOW CHARMING YOU LOOK, DEAR MRS. BELLAMY—­AS USUAL! WOULD YOU MIND TELLING ME WHO MAKES YOUR LOVELY FROCKS?  I’M SO DISSATISFIED WITH MY DRESSMAKER!”

“OH, CERTAINLY.  MRS. CHIFFONNETTE, OF BOND STREET.”

“CHIFFONNETTE!  WHY, I’VE BEEN TO HER FOR YEARS!  THE WRETCH!  I WONDER WHY SHE SUITS YOU SO MUCH BETTER, NOW!”]

* * * * *

A TALK OVER THE TUB;

OR, LEGAL LAUNDRESSES IN COUNCIL.

    ["The whole legal machinery is out of gear, and the country is
    too busy to put it right.”—­Law Times.]

A LEADING LAUNDRESS.

    Wich I say, Missis ’ALSBURY, Mum,
    We are all getting into a quand’ry;
  You and me can no longer be dumb,
    Seein’ how we’re the heads of the Laundry: 
  It is all very well to stand ’ere,
    Sooperintending the soaping and rinsing;
  Old pleas for delay, I much fear,