VII

AS the “Wooden Indian” has long been a by-word, and a popular symbol of stolidity in mind and body, I have thought it worth while to show that like more pretentious statuary he may furnish inspiration to the Muse of Poetry. Here is an advertisement in verse sent me by a lady of Seneca Falls, New York.

“Where the stately Indian chieftian

Stands in silence by the door,

Down on Vall street, stop and peep in

You will find a splendid store.

Should you choose the weed Nicotian

Choice tobaccos that inspire

Whose sweet incense wins devotion

To the smoking meerschaum’s fire,

Would you purchase true enjoyment,

Joy without a shade of sorrow;

Would you rest from your employment

With a fragrant rich cigarro,

Formed from meerschaum, clay and brier,

Tipped with amber, stemmed with cherry,

Are the bowls for perfumed fire,

Holding fumes that make men merry,

Or, should you prefer to “quid” it,

And to taste the weed’s dark juices,

Warrington will not forbid it

Neither need you make excuses.

46You who love the weed they call sweet,

Plug or fine cut, twist or leaf,

Go to Warrington’s at Vall street

There where stands the Indian Chief.”

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Punch with Impressive Nose Another Punch—less fortunate Punchinello and Nondescript Puck

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