Near a rusty-hilted sword,
Now upon my mantel-board,
Where my curios are stored,

                    You recline.

You were pleasant company when
By the scribbling of her pen
I was sent the ways of men

                    To repine.

Tell me truly (you were there
When she ceased that debonair
Correspondence and affair)

                    I suppose

That she laughed and smiled all day;
Or did gentle tear-drops stray
Down her charming retroussee

                    Little nose?

Where the sunbeams, coyly still,
Fall upon the mantel-sill,
You perpetually will

                    Silence woo;

And I fear that she herself,
By the little chubby elf. 
Will be laid upon the shelf

                    Just as you.

DE WITT STERRY.

TITLEPAGE DEDICATION.

“Let those smoke now who never smoked before,
And those who always smoked—­now smoke the more.”

ACROSTIC.

  To thee, blest weed, whose sovereign wiles,
  O’er cankered care bring radiant smiles,
  Best gift of Love to mortals given! 
  At once the bud and bliss of Heaven! 
  Crownless are kings uncrowned by thee;
  Content the serf in thy sweet liberty,
  O charm of life!  O foe to misery!

J.H.

ANOTHER MATCH.

AFTER A.C.  SWINBURNE.

  If love were dhudeen olden,
    And I were like the weed,
  Oh! we would live together
  And love the jolly weather,
  And bask in sunshine golden,
    Rare pals of choicest breed;
  If love were dhudeen olden,
    And I were like the weed.

  If you were oil essential,
    And I were nicotine,
  We’d hatch up wicked treason,
  And spoil each smoker’s reason,
  Till he grew penitential,
    And turned a bilious green;
  If you were oil essential,
    And I were nicotine.

  If you were snuff, my darling,
    And I, your love, the box. 
  We’d live and sneeze together,
  Shut out from all the weather,
  And anti-snuffers snarling,
    In neckties orthodox;
  If you were snuff, my darling,
    And I, your love, the box.

  If you were the aroma,
    And I were simply smoke,
  We’d skyward fly together,
  As light as any feather;
  And flying high as Homer,
    His gray old ghost we’d choke;
  If you were the aroma,
    And I were simply smoke.

From Cope’s Tobacco Plant.

IN WREATHS OF SMOKE.

  In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise,
      Faces of olden days uprise,
      And in his dreamers revery
    They haunt the smoker’s brain, and he
  Breathes for the past regretful sighs.