William the Testy ruled New Amsterdam,—­
A tall man he,—­
Whose rule was meant by him to be no sham,
But rather like the stern paternal style
That sways the city now.  He made the while
A rough decree.

He ordered that the pipes should cease to smoke,
From that day on. 
The people took the order as a joke;
They did not think, who smoked from childhood up,
That one man such delight would seek to stop,
Even in fun.

But when at last it dawned upon their minds
That this was meant,
They closed their houses, shut their window blinds,
Brought forth tobacco from their ample hoard,
And to the governor’s house with one accord
The burghers went.

They carried chairs, and sat without a word
Before his porch,
And smoked, and smoked, and not a sound was heard,
Till Kieft came forth to take the morning air,
With speech that would have burned them then and there
If words could scorch.

  But they, however savagely he spoke,
          Made no reply. 
  Higher and thicker rose the clouds of smoke,
  And Kieft, perceiving that they would be free
  Tried not to put in force his harsh decree,
          But let it die.

New York Sun.

HER BROTHER’S CIGARETTE.

  Like raven’s wings her locks of jet,
  Her soft eyes touched with fond regret,
  Doubt and desire her mind beset,
  Fondling her brother’s cigarette.

  Roses with dewy diamonds set,
  Drooped o’er the window’s parapet;
  With grace she turned a match to get,
  And lit her brother’s cigarette.

  Her puffs of smoky violet
  Twined in fantastic silhouette;
  She blushed, laughed, coughed a little, yet,
  She smoked her brother’s cigarette.

  Her eyes with briny tears were wet,
  Her bang grew limp beneath its net,
  Her brow was gemmed with beaded sweat,
  And to her bed she went, you bet.

ANON.

IN THE OL’ TOBACKER PATCH.

  I jess kind o’ feel so lonesome that I don’t know what to do,
    When I think about them days we used to spend
  A hoein’ out tobacker in th’ clearin’—­me an’ you—­
    An’ a wishin’ that the day was at an end. 
  For the dewdrops was a sparklin’ on the beeches’ tender leaves
    As we started out a workin’ in the morn;
  An’ th’ noonday sun was sendin’ down a shower of burnin’ sheaves
    When we heard the welcome-soundin’ dinner-horn. 
  An’ th’ shadders round us gathered in a sort of ghostly batch,
  ‘Fore we started home from workin’ in that ol’ tobacker patch.