“You are fitting me for a slightly better rôle, I fancy,” he said, venturing to add even one or two of his good-natured giggles. “The secretaryship of a cigar-stand is a rather more hopeful occupation than carrying your wraps through the street.”
Everything was arranged.
Mrs. Wistaria and her husband set off for San Jose.
I am a merchant-lady.
The first thing I did was to put up a dignified sign with the following black letters:
MORNING GLORY CIGAR STORE.
I borrowed a picture from Mrs. Willis’ parlour, and placed it by the slot machine.
It is the picture of a dear Injun sitting against a woodland fire with a respectable pipe, whose smoke sails up to the yellow moon. What resignation! What dream! What joy! It did suit beautifully for the cigar-stand.
I love to see a man smoking. The elfish smoke acts like a merry-hearted May gossamer. When I observe a man’s eye pursuing his smoke, I say to myself that his soul must be stepping nearer to his ideal. The road of smoke is the road of poesy.
A noble trade is tobacco.