THE SMOKER'S CALENDAR, 191 
This was the Anti’s latest greet. 
A voice replied, far up the street— 
{ ** Tobacco!” 
At break of day, on Clapham Rise, 
A pot-boy opened both his eyes, 
And to himself did gently swear, 
To hear a voice call through the air— 
“ Tobacco!” 
A traveler up a tree he found, 
Who smoked and spat upon the ground; 
And then among the blossoms ripe 
He cried, while puffing at his pipe— 
“Tobacco!” 
There in the grayish twilight, ‘* What's 
That you say?” cried eager Pots, 
And from the branch so green and far, i 
A voice fell like a broken jar— 
“Tobacco.” 
The following lines from the same source have been very 
appropriately called “The Smoker’s Calendar.” 
When January’s cold appears, 
A glowing pipe my spirit cheers ; 
And still it glads the length’ning day, 
’Neath February’s milder sway. 
When March’s keener winds succeed, 
What charms me like the burning weed? 
When April mounts the solar car, 
I join him, puffing a cigar; 
And May, so beautiful and bright, 
Still finds the pleasing weed a-light. 
To balmy zephyrs it gives zest, 
When June in gayest livery’s drest. 
Through July Flora’s offspring smile, 
But still Nicotia’s can beguile ; 
And August, when its fruits are ripe, 
Matures my pleasure in a pipe. 
September finds me in the garden, 
Communing with a long churchwarden. 
Ev’n in the wane of dull October, 
I smoke my pipe and sip my ‘‘ robur,” 
November's soaking show’rs require 
The smoking pipe and blazing fire: 
