I ROWED her out on the broad bright sea, Till the land lay purple upon our lee. The heavens were trying the waves to outshine, With never a cloud to the far sea-line. On the reefs the billows in kisses broke— But oh, I was dying for one small smoke. She spoke of the gulls and the waters green— But what is nature to Nicotine? She spoke of the tides, and the Triton myth; And said Jones was engaged to the blonde Miss Smith. She spoke of her liking lemon on clams; And Euclid, and parallelograms. For her face was fair and her eyes were brown, And she was a girl from Boston town. And I rowed and thought—but I never said— "Does Havana tobacco trouble your head?" She talked of algæ—she talked of sand— And I thought: "Tobacco you cannot stand." She talked of the ocean-steamer's speed— And I yearned for a whiff of the wicked weed. And at last I spoke, between fright and fret: "Would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?" She dropped her eyes on the ocean's blue, And said: "Would you mind if I smoked too?" |