'Twas just behind the woodshed, One glorious summer day, Far o'er the hills the sinking sun Pursued his westward way; And in my safe seclusion Removed from all the jar And din of earth's confusion I smoked my first cigar.
It was my first cigar! It was the worst cigar! Raw, green and dank, hide-bound and rank It was my first cigar!
Ah, bright the boyish fancies Wrapped in the smoke-wreaths blue; My eyes grew dim, my head was light, The woodshed round me flew! Dark night closed in around me-- Black night, without a star-- Grim death methought had found me And spoiled my first cigar.
It was my first cigar! A six-for-five cigar! No viler torch the air could scorch-- It was my first cigar!
All pallid was my beaded brow, The reeling night was late, My startled mother cried in fear, "My child, what have you ate?" I heard my father's smothered laugh, It seemed so strange and far, I knew he knew I knew he knew I'd smoked my first cigar!
It was my first cigar! A give-away cigar! I could not die--I knew not why-- It was my first cigar!
Since then I've stood in reckless ways, I've dared what men can dare, I've mocked at danger, walked with death, I've laughed at pain and care. I do not dread what may befall 'Neath my malignant star, No frowning fate again can make Me smoke my first cigar.
I've smoked my first cigar! My first and worst cigar! Fate has no terrors for the man Who's smoked his first cigar!
_A Story of Steamboat Life on the Mississippi_
Does any one remember the _Caravan_? She was what would now be considered a slow boat--_then_ (1827) she was regularly advertised as the "fast running," etc. Her regular trips from New Orleans to Natchez were usually made in from six to eight days; a trip made by her in five days was considered remarkable. A voyage from New Orleans to Vicksburg and back, including stoppages, generally entitled the officers and crew to a month's wages. Whether the _Caravan_ ever achieved the feat of a voyage to the Falls (Louisville) I have never learned; if she did, she must have "had a _time_ of it!"
It was my fate to take passage in this boat. The Captain was a good-natured, easy-going man, careful of the comfort of his passengers, and exceedingly fond of the _game of brag_. We had been out a little more than five days, and we were in hopes of seeing the bluffs of Natchez on the next day. Our wood was getting low, and night coming on. The pilot on duty _above_ (the other pilot held three aces at the time, and was just calling out the Captain, who "went it strong" on three kings) sent down word that the mate had reported the stock of wood reduced to half a cord. The worthy Captain excused himself to the pilot whose watch was _below_ and the two passengers who made up the party, and hurried to the deck, where he soon discovered by the landmarks that we were about half a mile from a woodyard, which he said was situated "right round yonder point." "But," muttered the Captain, "I don't much like to take wood of the yellow-faced old scoundrel who owns it--he always charges a quarter of a dollar more than any one else; however, there's no other chance." The boat was pushed to her utmost, and in a little less than an hour, when our fuel was about giving out, we made the point, and our cables were out and fastened to trees alongside of a good-sized wood pile.