I had a dream――it was not all a dream; Methought I sat beneath the silver beam Of the sweet moon, and you were with me there, And everything around was free and fair; And from our mouths upcurled the fragrant smoke, Whose light blue wreaths can all our pleasures yoke, In sweetest union to young Fancy’s car, And waft the soul out thro’ a good cigar. There as we sat and puffed the hours away, And talked and laughed about life’s little day, And built our golden castles in the air, And sighed to think what transient things they were, As the light smoke around our heads was thrown, Amidst its folds a little figure shone, An elfin sprite, who held within her hand A small cigar her sceptre of command. Her hair above her brow was twisted tight off, Like a cigar’s end, which you must bite off; Her eyes were red and twinkling like the light Of Eastern Hookah, or Meerschaum, by night; A green tobacco leaf her shoulders graced, And dried tobacco hung about her waist; Her voice breathed softly, like the easy puffing Of an old smoker, after he’s been stuffing. Thus as she rolled aside the wanton smoke, To us, her awe-struck votaries she spoke,―― “Hail faithful slaves! my choicest joys descend On him who joins the smoker to the friend, Yours is a pleasure that shall never vanish Provided that you smoke the best of Spanish; Puff forth your clouds”――(with that we puff’d amain) “Sweet is their fragrance”――(then we puff’d again) “How have I hung, with most intense delight, Over your heads when you have smoked at night, And gratefully imparted all my powers To bless and consecrate those happy hours; Smoke on,” she said. I started and awoke, And with my dream she vanished into smoke. ANONYMOUS. ――――:o:―――― AN AMERICAN PARODY OF WORDSWORTH’S “SONNET ON THE SONNET.” Scorn not the meerschaum. Housewives, you have croaked In ignorance of its charms. Through this small reed Did Milton, now and then, consume the weed; The poet Tennyson hath oft evoked The Muse with glowing pipe, and Thackeray joked And wrote and sang in nicotinian mood; Hawthorne with this hath cheered his solitude; A thousand times this pipe hath Lowell smoked; Full oft hath Aldrich, Stoddard, Taylor, Cranch, And many more whose verses float about, Puffed the Virginian or Havanna leaf; And when the poet’s or the artist’s branch, Drops no sustaining fruit, how sweet to pout Consolatory whiffs――alas, too brief! ――――:o:―――― MY HOOKAH. What is it, that affords such joys On Indian shores, and never cloys, But makes that _pretty, bubbling_ noise? My Hookah. What is it, that a party if in At breakfast, dinner, or at Tiffin, Surprises and delights the Griffin? My Hookah.