The following anecdote was told to myself, a few months after the curious event, by the three witnesses in the case. They were connections of my own, the father was a clergyman of the Anglican Church; he, his wife and their daughter, a girl of... Read more of The Girl In Pink at Scary Stories.caInformational Site Network Informational
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Smoking Poems

'twas Off The Blue Canaries.
'Twas off the blue Canary isles, A glorious summer d...

An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.
As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, An...

Those Ashes.
Up to the frescoed ceiling The smoke of my cigarette...

Tobacco Is An Indian Weed.
Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut...

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

My Cigar.
In spite of my physician, who is, _entre nous_, a fogy, ...

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

The Pipe Critic.
Say, pipe, let's talk of love; Canst aid me?...

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

Choosing A Wife By A Pipe Of Tobacco.
Tube, I love thee as my life; By thee I mean to choose...

To My Meerschaum.
There's a charm in the sun-crested hills, In the qui...

Pipes And Beer.
Before I was famous I used to sit In a dull old unde...

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

On A Broken Pipe.
Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form, So late with ...

Cannon Song.
And it has turned since you and I Set out to face th...

Effusion By A Cigar Smoker.
Warriors! who from the cannon's mouth blow fire, ...

Smoke Is The Food Of Lovers.
When Cupid open'd shop, the trade he chose Was just th...

A Warning.
HE. I loathe all books. I hate to see The world a...

The Farmer's Pipe.
Make a picture, dreamy smoke, In my still and cosey ...

To An Old Pipe.
Once your smoothly polished face Nestled lightly in a ...



SMOKE AND CHESS.








We were sitting at chess as the sun went down;
And he, from his meerschaum's glossy brown,
With a ring of smoke made his king a crown.

The cherry stem, with its amber tip,
Thoughtfully rested on his lip,
As the goblet's rim from which heroes sip.

And, looking out through the early green,
He called on his patron saint, I ween,--
That misty maiden, Saint Nicotine,--

While ever rested that crown so fair,
Poised in the warm and pulseless air,
On the carven chessman's ivory hair.

Dreamily wandered the game along,
Quietly moving at even-song,
While the striving kings stood firm and strong,

Until that one which of late was crowned
Flinched from a knight's determined bound,
And in sullen majesty left the ground,

Reeling back; and it came to pass
That, waiting to mutter no funeral mass,
A bishop had dealt him the _coup de grace_.

And so, as we sat, we reasoned still
Of fate and of fortune, of human will,
And what are the purposes men fulfil.

For we see at last, when the truth arrives,
The moves on the chess-board of our lives,--
That fields may be lost, though the king survives.

Not always he whom the world reveres
Merits its honor or wins its cheers,
Standing the best at the end of the years.

Not always he who has lost the fight
Rises again with the coming light,
Battles anew for his ancient right.

SAMUEL W. DUFFIELD.





Next: INSCRIPTION FOR A TOBACCO JAR.

Previous: SONG OF THE SMOKE-WREATHS.



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