The insects most commonly attacking the apple are the codlin-moth, tent-caterpillar, canker-worm and borer. The codlin-moth lays its eggs on the fruit about the time of the falling of the blossoms, and the larvae when hatched eat into the young fruit... Read more of APPLE ENEMIES at Home Gardening.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

Cigarette Rings.
How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night; ...

Envoi.
Smokers, who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to...

A Song Without A Name.
AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_." 'Twas in Queen Bess's gold...

Song Of The Smoke-wreaths.
_SUNG TO THE SMOKERS._ Not like clouds that cap the mo...

In Rotten Row.
In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no re...

Ashes.
Wrapped in a sadly tattered gown, Alone I puff my brie...

In Favor Of Tobacco.
Much victuals serves for gluttony To fatten men like s...

To My Cigar.
The warmth of thy glow, Well-lighted cigar, Makes h...

Tobacco.
The Indian weed, withered quite, Green at noon, cut do...

The Lost Lotus.
'Tis said that in the sun-embroidered East, There dw...

A Pot, And A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Some praise taking snuff; And 'tis pleasant en...

The Smoker's Reverie.
(_OCTOBER._) I'm sitting at dusk 'neath the old beeche...

Ad Nicotina.
"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._" Let others sing the prais...

To A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Come, lovely tube, by friendship blest, Belov'd and ...

The Pipe You Make Yourself.
There's clay pipes an' briar pipes an' meerschaum pipes a...

Ode To Tobacco.
Come then, Tobacco, new-found friend, Come, and thy ...

Smoking Spiritualized.
The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently...

The True Leucothoe.
Let others praise the god of wine, Or Venus, love, a...

In The Ol' Tobacker Patch.
I jess kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what to...

An Ode Of Thanks For Certain Cigars.
_TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON._ Luck, my dear Norton, still...



CANNON SONG.








And it has turned since you and I
Set out to face the world alone;
And, in a garret near the sky,
Had scarce a crust to call our own,
But many a banquet, Barmecide;
And many a dream of hope divine,
Lie buried in the moaning tide,
That drowns the past, old pipe of mine!

But prosing isn't quite the thing,
And so, I guess, I'll give it up:
Just wait a moment while I sing;
We'll have another parting cup,
And then to bed. The stars are low;
Yon sickly moon has ceased to shine;
So here she goes, and off we go
To Slumberland, old pipe of mine!

JOHN J. GORMLEY.





Next: CANNON SONG.

Previous: OLD PIPE OF MINE.



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