BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.

In prison cell, at early twilight,
Smoking Foesters "Best Cigar,"

Sat a convict, little dreaming
Aught his perfect bliss could mar.

Round the cell-block, slowly ambling,
Came a "Screw," on mischief bent,

And his wide, expanded nostrils
Quickly inhaled the welcome scent.

Wave on wave, thro' latticed iron,
Smoky clouds rose thick and high,

And the happy convict murmured:
"Go, ye cloudlets, greet the sky!"

But the cloudlets, incense laden,
Lingered near the oaken floor,

Till the "Screw," with cat-like motion,
Stood before the smoker's door.

In the spittoon, charred and sputtering,
Lay the smoker's joy and pride;

And the "Screw," exultant, murmured:
"Stackhouse will this case decide."

Morning dawned. The "cellar agent"
Bore the trembling wretch away

To a cellar, cold and gloomy,
Where the tools of torture lay.

Blows and shrieks alternate sounded,
And a voice from near the floor

Murmured: "Stackhouse! mercy! MERCY!!
P-l-e-a-s-e, sir; I will smoke no more!"

From the cellar, shorn and shaven,
Skulked the cowering "con." away;

And he smokes—but, Oh! how watchful
Is that victim, who can say?

All ye inmates, take the warning,
Gushing from a brother's heart:

He who smokes within these portals
For the dire offense may smart!