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—

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?”