What’s my love’s name?  Guess her name. 
        Nina?  No. 
        Alina?  No. 
  It does end with “ina,” though. 
  Guess again.  Christina?  No;
  Guess again.  Wilhelmina?  No. 
  She reciprocates my flame,
  Cheers me wheresoe’er I go,
  Never forward, never coy,
  She is evermore my joy. 
  Oh, the rapture! oh, the bliss! 
  When I met my darling’s kiss. 
  Oh, I love her form to greet! 
  Oh, her breath is passing sweet! 
  Who could help but love her so? 
  Nicotina, mistress mine,
  Thou shall be my Valentine.

ANON.

MY CIGARETTE.

  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 papers 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 could earn
    Upon her lips so soft a pillow.

  Ah, cigarette!  The gay coquette
    Has long forgot the flame she lighted;
  And you and I unthinking by
    Alike are thrown, alike are slighted. 
  The darkness gathers fast without,
    A raindrop on my window plashes;
  My cigarette and heart are out,
    And naught is left me but the ashes.

CHARLES F. LUMMIS.

THE PIPE CRITIC.

      Say, pipe, let’s talk of love;
        Canst aid me?  By my life,
      I’ll ask not gods above
        To help me choose a wife;
  But to thy gentle self I’ll give the puzzling strife.

      Thy color let me find,
        And blue like smoke her eyes;
      A healthy store her mind
        As that which in thee lies,—­
  An evanescent draft, whose incense mounts the skies.

      And, pipe, a breath like thine;
        Her hair an amber gold,
      And wrought in shapes as fine
        As that which now I hold;
  A grace in every limb, her form thy slender mould.

      And when her lips I kiss,
        Oh, may she burn like thee,
      And strive to give me bliss! 
        A comforter to be
  When friends wax cold, time fades, and all departs from me.