A RHYME FOR CHRISTMAS BY JOHN CHALLING Publication delayed by the author's determined but futile attempt to find the rhyme If _Browning_ only were here, This yule-ish time o' the year-- This mule-ish time o' the year,-- Stubbornly still refusing To add to the rhymes we've been using Since the first Christmas-glee (One might say) chantingly Rendered by rudest hinds Of the pelt-clad shepherding kinds Who didn't know Song from b- U-double-l's-foot!--Pah!-- (Haply the old Egyptian _ptah_-- Though I'd hardly wager a baw- Bee--or a _bumble_, for that-- And that's flat!).... But the thing that I want to get at Is a rhyme for _Christmas_-- Nay! nay! nay! nay! not _isthmus_-- The t- and the h- sounds covertly are Gnawing the nice auracular Senses until one may hear them gnar-- And the terminal, too, for m_a_s, is m_u_s, So _that_ will not do for us. Try for it--sigh for it--cry for it--die for it! O _but_ if Browning were here to apply for it, _He'd_ rhyme you _Christmas_-- _He'd_ make a _mist pass_ Over--something o' ruther-- Or find you the rhyme's very brother In lovers that _kissed fast_ _To baffle the moon_,--as he'd lose the _t_-final In fas-t as it blended with _to_ (mark the spinal Elision--tip-clipt as exquisitely nicely And hyper-exactingly sliced to precisely The extremest technical need): Or he'd _twist glass_, Or he'd have a _kissed lass_, Or shake neath our noses some great giant _fist-mass_-- No matter! If Robert were here, _he_ could do it, Though it took us till Christmas next year to see through it. MY CIGARETTE[1] BY CHARLES F. LUMMIS My cigarette! The amulet That charms afar unrest and sorrow; The magic wand that far beyond To-day can conjure up to-morrow. Like love's desire, thy crown of fire So softly with the twilight blending, And ah! meseems, a poet's dreams Are in thy wreaths of smoke ascending. My cigarette! Can I forget How Kate and I, in sunny weather, Sat in the shade the elm-tree made And rolled the fragrant weed together? I at her side beatified, To hold and guide her fingers willing; She rolling slow the paper's snow, Putting my heart in with the filling. My cigarette! I see her yet, The white smoke from her red lips curling, Her dreaming eyes, her soft replies, Her gentle sighs, her laughter purling! Ah, dainty roll, whose parting soul Ebbs out in many a snowy billow, I, too, would burn if I might earn Upon her lips so soft a pillow!