The Typo And His Pipe

The long, long day thru summer's heat,
The long, long day thru winter's cold,
Demurely he sits in his lowly seat,
With a steady hand and a spirit hold,
And he fills his galley with lines of type,
And slowly rises and fills his pipe.

He touches the keys with his finger tips,
And down the matrices swiftly glide,
And in the corners of his pale lips
A smile cf comfort essays to hide,
Because his galley is filled with type,
And he has a chance to fill his pipe.

The wheels go round with a Jolt and jerk,
And the pot of metal sends out frs heat,
But the linotypist bends to his work,
And this is the thing that keeps him sweet^___
He knows when his galley is filled with type,
He then can arise and fill his pipe.

Explain, pipe dreamers, some pleasant day,
So a poor old fogy can comprehend,
What is the charm in the cob or clay,
Tho redolent with nicotine blend,
That makes a typo fill up his pipe,
Each time he fills his galley with type.

^__J. M. Cavaness.