Doctor Bolles has very kindly sent me one of his later humorous poems.  A tragic forecast of suffragette rule which is too gloomy, as almost every woman will assure an agreeable smoker that she is “fond of the odour of a good cigar.”

DESCENSUS AD INFERNUM

    When the last cigar is smoked and the box is splintered
          and gone,
    And only the faintest whiff of the dear old smell hangs on,
    In the times when he’s idle or thoughtful,
    When he’s lonesome, jolly or blue,
    And he fingers his useless matches,
    What is a poor fellow to do?

    For the suffragettes have conquered, and their harvest is
          gathered in;
    From Texas to Maine they’ve voted tobacco the deadliest sin;
    A pipe sends you up for a year, a cigarette for two;
    In this female republic of virtue,
    What is a poor fellow to do?

    He may train up his reason on bridge and riot on afternoon tea,
    And at dinner, all wineless and proper, a dress-suited guest he
          may be;
    But when the mild cheese has been passed, and the chocolate mint
          drops are few,
    And the coffee comes in and he hankers,
    What is a poor fellow to do?

    It’s all for his good, they say; for in heaven no nicotine
          grows,
    And the angels need no cedar for moth-proofs to keep their
          clothes;
    No ashes are dropped, no carpets are singed, by all the saintly
          crew;
    If this is heaven, and he gets there,
    What is a poor fellow to do?

    He’ll sit on the golden benches and long for a chance to break
          jail,
    With a shooting-star for a motor, or a flight on a comet’s tail;
    He’ll see the smoke rise in the distance, and goaded by memory’s
          spell,
    He’ll go back on the women who saved him,
    And ask for a ticket to Hell!

An exact description of the usual happenings at “Breezy” in the beginning, by my only sister, Mrs. Babcock, who was devoted to me and did more than anyone to help to develop the Farm.  I feel that this chapter must be the richer for two of her poems.

LIGHT AND SHADE AT “BREEZY MEADOWS” FARM

This charming May morning we’ll walk to the grove! 
And give the dear dogs all a run;
Over the meadows ’tis pleasant to rove
And bask in the light of the sun.

Last night a sly fox took off our best duck! 
Run for a gun! there a hen hawk flies! 
We always have the very worst of luck,
The anxious mistress of the chickens cries.

We stop to smell the lilacs at the gate,
And watch the bluebirds in the elm-tree’s crest—­
The finest farm it is in all the state,
Which corner of it do you like the best?

Just think! a rat has eaten ducklings two,
Now isn’t that a shame! pray set a trap! 
The downiest, dearest ones that ever grew,
I think this trouble will climax cap!