Volume 99 — THREE TASTES.

My pipe, he tastes of turpentine— He is a penny pipe— A taste that every pipe of mine Has when he is not ripe. I bought him at a little shop Where they sell fruit and cheese, Tobacco, toys, and ginger-pop, And said, "A cheap pipe, please." It was a maiden sold him me, And she was proud and cold; She'd briar pipes at two-and-three For them that squandered gold; She'd one that had a leather case. Item, a curly stem; And cheap pipes make her shrug her face, She had such scorn of them.

My pipe he tastes of cherry now; Gone, like the foam of wine, Gone, like the mist from mountain-brow, Gone is that turpentine. With the pure herb I feel it blend— That charm of cherry-wood, And smoke him six times straight on end, Because he is so good. And yet my aunt gets up, and sniffs, And therewith wags her head; And warns me in between the whiffs That I shall soon be dead; And says excessive smoking must Debase and bring me low, She makes herself offensive, just Because she loves me so.

My pipe, he tastes of chocolate, And he has grown so dear so dear, That I get up at half-past eight And smoke till night is here. My aunt informs me that the smell Is ranker than before— I could not love her half so well Loved I not baccy more. The female mind! The female mind! How beautiful it is! And yet it has to sit behind When it's compared with this— This taste that falls upon my pipe, That calms when woman clacks, In the sweet season when he's ripe, And just before he cracks.