The Smoker's Year Book

The verses written on paper by

Oliver Herford

&

The pictures drawn on stone by

Sewell Collins

The whole published by

MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY NEW YORK 1908
Copyright, 1908, by MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY
NEW YORK

All rights reserved
Published, October, 1908

JANUARY

Now Time the harvester surveys

His sorry crops of yesterdays;

Of trampled hopes and reaped regrets,

And for another harvest whets

His ancient scythe, eying the while

The budding year with cynic smile.

Well, let him smile; in snug retreat

I fill my pipe with honeyed sweet,

Whose incense wafted from the bowl

Shall make warm sunshine in my soul,

And conjure mid the fragrant haze

Fair memories of other days.

FEBRUARY

Bend you now before the shrine

Of the good Saint Valentine.

Show to him your broken heart—

Pray the Saint to take your part.

Should he intercede in vain

And the maid your heart disdain,

Call upon Saint Nicotine;

He will surely intervene.

Bring burnt off'ring to his feet,

Incense of Havana, sweet.

Then the maiden's shade invoke,

It will disappear in smoke!

MARCH

Here comes bluff March—a cross between

A Jester and a Libertine.

He loves to make the parson race

With wicked words his hat to chase;

To dye with compromising rose

The pious man's abstemious nose.

The ladies hate him, though he shows

A pretty taste for silken hose.

The smoker views him with distrust,

Shielding his last match from his gust.

But once alight—his holy joy

No blast from Heaven can destroy!

APRIL

Lady April, it is clear,

Is the spoilt child of the Year.

See her tears about to start—

Thus she melts old Winter's heart.

Now the gay deceiving thing

Turns and plays the deuce with Spring.

Winter lingers at her gate;

Spring grows chilly and irate.

I'd go home if I were he—

It is just such girls as she

Make a fellow thank his stars

For the solace of cigars.

MAY

Like Brunhilda, May is won

By the kisses of the Sun.

Siegfried like, the maid he takes

In his arms and she awakes

To the tender piping sound

Of the birds—while all around

In a magic fire ring

Purple flames of Crocus spring.

Now I fill my fragrant briar,

Lo! it glows with gentle fire,

Wafting scented wreaths of love

To the little leaves above.

JUNE

"What so rare as a day in June?"

Thus I heard the poet croon,

To the month of roses sweet,

His song with barometric feet.

Perfect days I own are rare—

All depends on how you fare.

Can a day be perfect to

The rose that has not sipped the dew?

Can the Bee, do you suppose,

Hum, that has not sipped the rose?

Can there be for Man, I say,

Without a smoke, a perfect day?

JULY

Red rockets skyward rush pell-mell

And fill the night with noise and smell.

The stars of Heaven look down, and say:

"So this is Independence Day!

Poor earth-born stars, it makes us sad

To see your fire work like mad

To make a Human Holiday.

Where is your independence, pray?"—

Whereat I woke—my fire was low,

My pipe was out. Said I: "Heigho!

I never thought of it that way,

I'll give them both a holiday."

AUGUST

Drowsing o'er my sainted briar,

Dreaming dreams of Heart's Desire,

Dreaming 'neath the August sun,

Thus my meditations run—

What if that great Ember bright

Were a monster Pipe alight,

Or the glowing from afar

Of some Fire-God's cigar?

If the Smoker's Peace abide

In that sun fire, multiplied

By its vastness, I will be

Henceforth a devout Parsee.

SEPTEMBER

As the smoker sometimes sees

In Nicotian reveries

Features of some Lovely Girl

In the tinted wreaths that curl

From his pipe; so, as we gaze

Through the soft September haze

In the years' calm afternoon

Red with summer's ashes strewn,

Through the tender veil of mist,

Woven gold and amethyst,

Summer's charming ghost we see

Decked in Indian panoply.

OCTOBER

Say! October, how in thunder

Do you keep so young, I wonder?

You're no chicken, and you know it,

Yet, old man, for all you show it,

You might, on a sunny day,

Pass for April or for May.

See, your house is falling round you,

Yet you're laughing—say! confound you,

What's the secret? How'd you do it?

Mist and moisture? Ah, I knew it!

A pipe! A mug! October brew,

Fill up—October—here's to you!

NOVEMBER

Who's that pedler at the door?

What! November, back once more?

Why, it seems but yesterday

That he took himself away!

Say I'm out! Tell him to go!

He has nothing new to show.

Same old lay-out every trip,

Same Pneumonia, same old Grippe,

Same old Hard Luck tales to tell,

Same Thanksgiving Day—oh, well,

Show him in—then stir the log

And bring church-warden pipes and grog.

DECEMBER

Proudly beams the Christmas Tree

In its tinsel finery.

Round and round in sprightly pairs

Children dance to old-time airs—

Though they laugh they make no sound;

Dancing, still they tread no ground.

Naught but airy phantoms they

Of a vanished Christmas Day,

Ancient playmates found again

In a smoke wreath's purple skein,

And they whisper in my ear,

"Does Christmas still come once a year?"