OVER HIS CIGAR
I do not believe that there was ever an Aunt Tabithy who could abide cigars. My Aunt Tabithy hated them with a peculiar hatred. She was not only insensible to the rich flavor of a fresh rolling volume of smoke, but she could not so much as tolerate the sight of the rich russet color of an Havana-labeled box. It put her out of all conceit with Guava jelly, to find it advertised in the same tongue, and with the same Cuban coarseness of design.
She could see no good in a cigar.
“But by your leave, my aunt,” said I to her the other morning—“there is very much that is good in a cigar.”
My aunt, who was sweeping, tossed her head, and with it, her curls—done up in paper.
“It is a very excellent matter,” continued I, puffing.
“It is dirty,” said my aunt.