For this:  Some links we forge are never broken;
    Some feelings claim exemption from decay;
  And Love, of which this pipe is but the token,
    Shall last, though pipes and smokers pass away.

W.H.B.

MY LITTLE BROWN PIPE.

  I have a little comforter,
    I carry in my pocket: 
  It is not any woman’s face
    Set in a golden locket;
  It is not any kind of purse;
    It is not book or letter,
  But yet at times I really think
    That it is something better.

  Oh, my pipe, my little brown pipe! 
    How oft, at morning early,
  When vexed with thoughts of coming toil,
    And just a little surly,
  I sit with thee till things get clear,
    And all my plans grow steady,
  And I can face the strife of life
    With all my senses steady.

  No matter if my temper stands
    At stormy, fair, or clearing,
  My pipe has not for any mood
    A word of angry sneering. 
  I always find it just the same,
    In care, or joy, or sorrow,
  And what it is to-day I know
    It’s sure to be to-morrow.

  It helps me through the stress of life;
    It balances my losses;
  It adds a charm to all my joys,
    And lightens all my crosses. 
  For through the wreathing, misty veil
    Joy has a softer splendor,
  And life grows sweetly possible,
    And love more truly tender.

  Oh, I have many richer joys! 
    I do not underrate them,
  And every man knows what I mean,
    I do not need to state them. 
  But this I say,—­I’d rather miss
    A deal of what’s called pleasure,
  Than lose my little comforter,
    My little smoky treasure.

AMELIA E. BARR.

  Forsaken of all comforts but these two,—­
    My fagot and my pipe—­I sit to muse
    On all my crosses, and almost excuse
  The heavens for dealing with me as they do. 
  When Hope steps in, and, with a smiling brow,
    Such cheerful expectations doth infuse
    As makes me think ere long I cannot choose
  But be some grandee, whatsoe’er I’m now. 
    But having spent my pipe, I then perceive
    That hopes and dreams are cousins,—­both deceive. 
  Then mark I this conclusion in my mind,
    It’s all one thing,—­both tend into one scope,—­
    To live upon Tobacco and on Hope: 
  The one’s but smoke, the other is but wind.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

’TWAS OFF THE BLUE CANARIES.

  ’Twas off the blue Canary isles,
    A glorious summer day,
  I sat upon the quarter deck,
    And whiffed my cares away;
  And as the volumed smoke arose,
    Like incense in the air,
  I breathed a sigh to think, in sooth,
    It was my last cigar.

  I leaned upon the quarter rail,
    And looked down in the sea;
  E’en there the purple wreath of smoke,
    Was curling gracefully;
  Oh! what had I at such a time
    To do with wasting care? 
  Alas! the trembling tear proclaimed
    It was my last cigar.