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THE SMOKER'S YEAR BOOK

_The verses written on paper by_

Oliver Herford

&

_The pictures drawn on stone by_

Sewell Collins


[Illustration]


The whole published by

MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY NEW YORK 1908

_Copyright, 1908, by_ MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY

NEW YORK


_All rights reserved_

_Published, October, 1908_




  JANUARY


  Now Time the harvester surveys
  His sorry crops of yesterdays;
  Of trampled hopes and reaped regrets,
  And for another harvest whets
  His ancient scythe, eying the while
  The budding year with cynic smile.
  Well, let him smile; in snug retreat
  I fill my pipe with honeyed sweet,
  Whose incense wafted from the bowl
  Shall make warm sunshine in my soul,
  And conjure mid the fragrant haze
  Fair memories of other days.

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  FEBRUARY


  Bend you now before the shrine
  Of the good Saint Valentine.
  Show to him your broken heart--
  Pray the Saint to take your part.
  Should he intercede in vain
  And the maid your heart disdain,
  Call upon Saint Nicotine;
  He will surely intervene.
  Bring burnt off'ring to his feet,
  Incense of Havana, sweet.
  Then the maiden's shade invoke,
  It will disappear in smoke!

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  MARCH


  Here comes bluff March--a cross between
  A Jester and a Libertine.
  He loves to make the parson race
  With wicked words his hat to chase;
  To dye with compromising rose
  The pious man's abstemious nose.
  The ladies hate him, though he shows
  A pretty taste for silken hose.
  The smoker views him with distrust,
  Shielding his last match from his gust.
  But once alight--his holy joy
  No blast from Heaven can destroy!

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  APRIL


  Lady April, it is clear,
  Is the spoilt child of the Year.
  See her tears about to start--
  Thus she melts old Winter's heart.
  Now the gay deceiving thing
  Turns and plays the deuce with Spring.
  Winter lingers at her gate;
  Spring grows chilly and irate.
  I'd go home if I were he--
  It is just such girls as she
  Make a fellow thank his stars
  For the solace of cigars.

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  MAY


  Like Brunhilda, May is won
  By the kisses of the Sun.
  Siegfried like, the maid he takes
  In his arms and she awakes
  To the tender piping sound
  Of the birds--while all around
  In a magic fire ring
  Purple flames of Crocus spring.
  Now I fill my fragrant briar,
  Lo! it glows with gentle fire,
  Wafting scented wreaths of love
  To the little leaves above.

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  JUNE


  "What so rare as a day in June?"
  Thus I heard the poet croon,
  To the month of roses sweet,
  His song with barometric feet.
  Perfect days I own are rare--
  All depends on how you fare.
  Can a day be perfect to
  The rose that has not sipped the dew?
  Can the Bee, do you suppose,
  Hum, that has not sipped the rose?
  Can there be for Man, I say,
  Without a smoke, a perfect day?

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  JULY


  Red rockets skyward rush pell-mell
  And fill the night with noise and smell.
  The stars of Heaven look down, and say:
  "So this is Independence Day!
  Poor earth-born stars, it makes us sad
  To see your fire work like mad
  To make a Human Holiday.
  Where is _your_ independence, pray?"--
  Whereat I woke--my fire was low,
  My pipe was out. Said I: "Heigho!
  I never thought of it that way,
  I'll give them both a holiday."

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  AUGUST


  Drowsing o'er my sainted briar,
  Dreaming dreams of Heart's Desire,
  Dreaming 'neath the August sun,
  Thus my meditations run--
  What if that great Ember bright
  Were a monster Pipe alight,
  Or the glowing from afar
  Of some Fire-God's cigar?
  If the Smoker's Peace abide
  In that sun fire, multiplied
  By its vastness, I will be
  Henceforth a devout Parsee.

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  SEPTEMBER


  As the smoker sometimes sees
  In Nicotian reveries
  Features of some Lovely Girl
  In the tinted wreaths that curl
  From his pipe; so, as we gaze
  Through the soft September haze
  In the years' calm afternoon
  Red with summer's ashes strewn,
  Through the tender veil of mist,
  Woven gold and amethyst,
  Summer's charming ghost we see
  Decked in Indian panoply.

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  OCTOBER


  Say! October, how in thunder
  Do you keep so young, I wonder?
  You're no chicken, and you know it,
  Yet, old man, for all you show it,
  You might, on a sunny day,
  Pass for April or for May.
  See, your house is falling round you,
  Yet you're laughing--say! confound you,
  What's the secret?  How'd you do it?
  Mist and moisture? Ah, I knew it!
  A pipe! A mug! October brew,
  Fill up--October--here's to you!

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  NOVEMBER


  Who's that pedler at the door?
  What!  November, back once more?
  Why, it seems but yesterday
  That he took himself away!
  Say I'm out! Tell him to go!
  He has nothing new to show.
  Same old lay-out every trip,
  Same Pneumonia, same old Grippe,
  Same old Hard Luck tales to tell,
  Same Thanksgiving Day--oh, well,
  Show him in--then stir the log
  And bring church-warden pipes and grog.

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]




  DECEMBER


  Proudly beams the Christmas Tree
  In its tinsel finery.
  Round and round in sprightly pairs
  Children dance to old-time airs--
  Though they laugh they make no sound;
  Dancing, still they tread no ground.
  Naught but airy phantoms they
  Of a vanished Christmas Day,
  Ancient playmates found again
  In a smoke wreath's purple skein,
  And they whisper in my ear,
  "Does Christmas still come once a year?"

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration]

  [Illustration: FINIS]





End of Project Gutenberg's The Smoker's Year Book, by Oliver Herford