"Beware the briar's poison'd root; Beware the birds-eye put into 't."

This was the Anti's latest greet.

A voice replied, far up the street-- "Tobacco!"

At break of day, on Clapham Rise.

A pot-boy opened both his eyes, And to himself did gently swear, To hear a voice call through the air-- "Tobacco!"

A traveler up a tree he found, Who smoked and spat upon the ground; And then among the blossoms ripe He cried, while puffing at his pipe-- "Tobacco!"

There in the grayish twilight, "What's That you say?" cried eager Pots, And from the branch so green and far, A voice fell like a broken jar-- "Tobacco."

The following lines from the same source have been very appropriately called "The Smoker's Calendar."

When January's cold appears, A glowing pipe my spirit cheers; And still it glads the length'ning day, 'Neath February's milder sway.

When March's keener winds succeed, What charms me like the burning weed?

When April mounts the solar car, I join him, puffing a cigar; And May, so beautiful and bright, Still finds the pleasing weed a-light.

To balmy zephyrs it gives zest, When June in gayest livery's drest.

Through July Flora's offspring smile, But still Nicotia's can beguile; And August, when its fruits are ripe, Matures my pleasure in a pipe.

September finds me in the garden, Communing with a long churchwarden.

Ev'n in the wane of dull October, I smoke my pipe and sip my "robur,"

November's soaking show'rs require The smoking pipe and blazing fire: The darkest day in drear December's-- That's lighted by their glowing embers.

The Hon. "Sunset" c.o.x in his lecture on American Humor alluded to the national characteristics of the French, Spanish, German, and other nationalities, says:--

"The highest enjoyment of a Frenchman is to hear the last cantatrice, the Spaniard enjoys the most skillful thrust of the matador in the bull arena, the Neapolitan the taste of the maccaroni, the German his beer and metaphysics, the darkey his banjo, and the American--

'To the American there's nothing so sweet As to sit in his chair and tilt up his feet, Enjoy the Cuba, whose flavor just suits, And gaze at the world through the toes of his boots.'"

This would seem to be a feature of the Dutch according to a late traveler, who says:--

"I like Holland--it is the antidote of France. No one is ever in a hurry here. Life moves on in a slow, majestic stream, a little muddy and stagnant, perhaps, like one of their own ca.n.a.ls; but you see no waves, no breakers; not an eddy, nor even a froth bubble, breaks the surface. Even a Dutch child, as he steals along to school, smoking his short pipe, has a mock air of thought about him."

The following epigrams for tobacco jars from "The Tobacco Plant"

evince much "taste, wit, and ingenuity."

Fill the bowl, you jolly soul, And burn all sorrow to a coal.

_Henry Clay._

That man is frugal and content indeed, Who finds food, solace, pleasure in a weed.

_The "Weed"._

Behold! this vessel hath a moral got, Tobacco-smokers all must go to pot.

_Epigrammatic._

A weed you call me, but you'll own No rose was e'er more fully blown.

_Sic Itur ad Nostra._

Great Jove, Pandora's box with jars did fill This Jar alone has power those jars to still.

_In Nubilus._

Tobacco some say, is a potent narcotic, That rules half the world in a way quite despotic; So to punish him well for his wicked and merry tricks, We'll burn him forthwith, as they used to do heretics.

_Zed._

[Ill.u.s.tration: Smoker reading epigrams.]

No use to draw upon a bank if no effects are there, But a draw of this Tobacco is quite a safe affair; And a pipe with fragrant weed (such as I hold) neatly stuffed, Is just the only thing on earth that ought to be well puffed.

_R. S. Y. P._

Poor woman "pipes her eye,"

When in affliction's gripe; But man, far wiser grown, Just eyes his pipe.

_In Nubilus._

Sir Walter Raleigh! name of worth, How sweet for thee to know King James, who never smoked on earth, Is smoking down below.

_Ex Fumo dare Lucem._

Travelers say Tobacco springs From the graves of Indian kings: Fill your pipe, then--smoke will be Incense to their memory.

Though the weed's nor rich nor rare, 'Tis a balm for every care.

_Peter Piper._

Give me the weed, the fragrant weed, My wearied brain to calm; In a wreath of smoke, while I crack my joke, I'll find a healing balm.

Day after day, let come what may, The pipe of peace I'll fill; I readily pay for briar or clay, To save a doctor's bill.

_Pompone._

Great men need no pompous marble To perpetuate their name; Household gear and common trinkets Best remind us of their fame.

Raleigh's glory rests immortal On ten thousand thousand urns, Every jar is _in memoriam_, Every fragrant pipe that burns.

_At an Ash._