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.

III.

  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.

* * * * *

THE MAGIC HORSE.

(A PARALLEL NOT TO BE PUSHED TOO FAR.)

[Illustration]

["You are likewise to understand that MALAMBRUNO told me that, whenever fortune should direct me to the knight who was to be our deliverer, he would send him a steed—­not like the vicious jades let out for hire, for it should be that very wooden horse upon which PETER of Provence carried off the fair MAGALONA....  MALAMBRUNO, by his art, has now got possession of him, and by this means posts about to every port of the world.”

“Hoodwink thyself, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and get up....  And supposing the success of the adventure should not be equal to our hopes, yet of the glory of so brave an attempt no malice can deprive us....  The whole company raised their voices at once, calling out, ’Speed you well, valorous Knight! heaven guide thee, undaunted Squire!  Now you fly aloft!’”—­Adventures of Don Quixote.]

  Yes, “Speed you well, most valorous Knight! 
    Heaven guide you!”—­and sound sense inspire you! 
  Small marvel that our land’s black blight
    Of want and misery should fire you,
  Or any man whose heart will mourn
    More for wrecked lives than broken crockery. 
  This picture is not shaped in scorn,
          Nor meant in mockery.

  La Mancha’s Knight, though brave, was blind,
    Squire Sancho just a trifle credulous,
  But our dear Don was nobly kind,
    And in the cause of suffering sedulous. 
  If, mounting MALAMBRUNO’s steed,
    He showed more sanguine than sagacious,
  He was not moved by huckster greed,
          Or pride edacious.

  But “with what bridle is he led? 
    And with what halter is he guided?”
  Asked Sancho, rubbing his clown’s head. 
    So they who have the least derided
  Your plan for floating “the submerged,”
    Colossal, costly, wide extending,
  Feel some few questions may be urged,
          Without offending.