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 lustrous 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.