What care I if my poor means
  Clad not my walls with splendid scenes
    And pictures by the masters;
  Here in the curling smoke-wreath glow
  Bold hills and lovely vales below,
    And brooks with nodding asters.

  All that on earth is fair and fine,
  This fragrant magic makes it mine,
    And gives me sole dominion;
  And if you call me fanciful,
  I only take a stronger pull,
    And laugh at your opinion.

  Let others fret and fume with care,
  ’Tis easy finding everywhere,
    But happiness is rarer;
  And if I find it sweet and ripe,
  In this tobacco and my pipe,
    I’ll count it all the fairer.

  Then give me but Virginia’s weed,
  An earthen bowl, a stem of reed,
    What care I for the weather? 
  Though winter freeze, or summer broil
  We rest us from the days of toil,
    My Pipe and I together.

HERMANN RAVE.

THE OLD CLAY PIPE.

  There’s a lot of solid comfort
    In an old clay pipe, I find,
  If you’re kind of out of humor
    Or in trouble in your mind. 
  When you’re feeling awful lonesome
    And don’t know just what to do,
  There’s a heap of satisfaction
    If you smoke a pipe or two.

  The ten thousand pleasant memories
    That are buried in your soul
  Are playing hide and seek with you
    Around that smoking bowl. 
  These are mighty restful moments: 
    You’re at peace with all the world,
  And the panorama changes
    As the thin blue smoke is curled.

  Now you cross the bridge of sorrows,
    Now you enter pleasant lands,
  And before an open doorway,
    You will linger to shake hands
  With a lithe and girlish figure
    That is coming through the door;
  Ah! you recognize the features: 
    You have seen that face before.

  You are at the dear old homestead
    Where you spent those happy years;
  You are romping with the children;
    You are smiling through your tears;
  You have fought and whipped the bully
    You are eight and he is ten. 
  Oh! how rapidly we travel,—­
    You are now a boy again.

  You approach the open doorway,
    And before the old armchair
  You will stop and kiss the grandma,
    You will smooth the thin white hair;
  You will read the open Bible,
    For the lamp is lit, you see. 
  It is now your hour for bed-time
    And you kneel at mother’s knee.

  Still you linger at the hearthstone;
    You are loath to leave the place. 
  When an apple cut’s in progress: 
    You must wait and dance with Grace.

  What’s the matter with the music? 
    Only this:  The pipe is broke,
  And a thousand pleasant fancies
    Vanish promptly with the smoke.

A.B.  VAN FLEET.