o14 * QUAINT WHIMS. 
From a Southern paper we extract these whimsical lines, 
“On the Great Fall in the Price of Tobacco in 1801,” b 
Hugh Montgomery, Lynchburgh, Va., Hs 
‘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.’ 
‘Not so,’ quoth Strap, ‘I’m right and you are wrong, 
ri For since tobacco fell, your face is twice as long.’” 
if 
Another quaint whim in the form of an advertisement for 
a lost meerschaum is from an Australian paper: ;. 4 
Se 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.” os 
A- bumorous writer thus discoursés.on man, who he 
denominates as “common clays”: “Yet we are all common 
clays!‘ ‘There are long clays and short: clays, coarse ¢lays 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; 
