214 QUAINT WHIMS. 



From a Southern paper we extract these whimsical lines. 

 " On the Great Fall in the Price of Tobacco in 1801," by 

 Hugh Montgomery, Lynchburgh, Ya., 



"Lately a planter chanced to pop 



His head into a barber's shop 



Begged to be shaved ; it soon was done, 



When Strap (inclined oft-times to fun,) 



Doubling the price he'd asked before, 



Instead of two pence made it four. 



The planter said, ' You sure must grant, 



Your charge is most exhorbitant.' 



1 Not so,' quoth Strap, ' I'm right and you are wrong, 



For since tobacco fell, your face is twice as long."* 



Another quaint whim in the form of an advertisement for 

 a lost meerschaum is from an Australian paper : 



" To Honest men and others, Driving from Hale Town 

 to Bridgetown, on Sunday, last, the advertiser lost a cigar 

 holder with the face of a pretty girl on it. The intrinsic 

 value of the missing article is small, but as the owner has 

 been for the last few months converting the young lady from 

 a blonde into a brunette, he would be glad to get it back 

 again. If it was picked up by a gentleman, on reading this 

 notice, he will, of course, send it to the address below. If 

 it was picked up by a poor man, who could get a few shil- 

 lings by selling it, on his bringing it to the address below, 

 he shall be paid the full amount of its intrinsic value. 

 If it was picked up by a thief, let him deliver it, and he shall 

 be paid a like amount, and thus for once can do an honest 

 action, without being a penny the worse for it." 



A humorous writer thus discourses on man, who he 

 denominates as " common clays " : " Yet we are all common 

 clays ! There are long clays and short clays, coarse clays and 

 refined clays, and the latter are pretty scarce, that's a fact. 

 To follow out the simile, life is the tobacco with which we 

 are loaded, and when the vital spark is applied we live; 

 when that tobacco is exhausted we die, the essence of our 

 life ascending from the lukewarm clay when the last fibre 

 burns out, as a curl of smoke from the ashes in the bowl of 

 the pipe, and mingling with the perfumed breeze of heaven, 

 or the hot breath of well, never mind ; we hope not. Then 

 the clay is cold, and glows no more from the fire within ; the 

 pipe is broken, and ceases to comfort and console. We say, 



