VII
AS the “Wooden Indian” has long been a by-word, and a popular symbol of stolidity in mind and body, I have thought it worth while to show that like more pretentious statuary he may furnish inspiration to the Muse of Poetry. Here is an advertisement in verse sent me by a lady of Seneca Falls, New York.
“Where the stately Indian chieftian
Stands in silence by the door,
Down on Vall street, stop and peep in
You will find a splendid store.
Should you choose the weed Nicotian
Choice tobaccos that inspire
Whose sweet incense wins devotion
To the smoking meerschaum’s fire,
Would you purchase true enjoyment,
Joy without a shade of sorrow;
Would you rest from your employment
With a fragrant rich cigarro,
Formed from meerschaum, clay and brier,
Tipped with amber, stemmed with cherry,
Are the bowls for perfumed fire,
Holding fumes that make men merry,
Or, should you prefer to “quid” it,
And to taste the weed’s dark juices,
Warrington will not forbid it
Neither need you make excuses.
You who love the weed they call sweet,
Plug or fine cut, twist or leaf,
Go to Warrington’s at Vall street
There where stands the Indian Chief.”
Punch with Impressive Nose
Another Punch—less fortunate
Punchinello and Nondescript
Puck