Mince Pie

A Message for Boonville

When corncob pipes went up from a nickel to six cents, smoking

traditions tottered. That was a year or more ago, but one can still

recall the indignation written on the faces of nicotine-soaked gaffers

who had been buying cobs at a jitney ever since Washington used one to

keep warm at Valley Forge. It was the supreme test of our determination

to win the war: the price of Missouri meerschaums went up 20 per cent

and there was no insurrection.

Yesterday we went out to buy our annual corncob, and were agreeably

surprised to learn that the price is still six cents; but our friend the

tobacconist said that it may go up again soon. We took the treasure,

gleaming yellow with fresh varnish, back to our kennel, and we are

smoking it as we set down these words. A corncob is sadly hot and raw

until it is well sooted, but the ultimate flavor is worth persecution.

The corncob pipes we always buy come from Boonville, Mo., and we don't

see why we shouldn't blow a little whiff of affection and gratitude

toward that excellent town. Moreover, Boonville celebrated its

centennial recently: it was founded in 1818. If the map is to be

believed, it is on the southern bank of the Missouri River, which is

there spanned by a very fine bridge; it is reached by two railroads

(Missouri Pacific and M., K. and T.) and stands on a bluff 100 feet

above the water. According to the two works of reference nearest to our

desk, its population is either 4252 or 4377. Perhaps the former census

omits the 125 men of the town who are so benighted as to smoke briars or

clays.

Delightful town of Boonville, seat of Cooper County, you are well named.

How great a boon you have conferred upon a troubled world! Long after

more ambitious towns have faded in the memory of man your quiet and

soothing gift to humanity will make your name blessed. I like to imagine

your shady streets, drowsing in the summer sun, and the rural

philosophers sitting on the verandas of your hotels or on the benches of

Harley Park ("comprising fifteen acres"--New International

Encyclopedia), looking out across the brown river and puffing clouds of

sweet gray reek. Down by the livery stable on Main street (there must be

a livery stable on Main street) I can see the old creaky, cane-bottomed

chairs (with seats punctured by too much philosophy) tilted against the

sycamore trees, ready for the afternoon gossip and shag tobacco. I can

imagine the small boys of Boonville fishing for catfish from the piers

of the bridge or bathing down by the steamboat dock (if there is one),

and yearning for the day when they, too, will be grown up and old enough

to smoke corncobs.

What is the subtle magic of a corncob pipe? It is never as sweet or as

mellow as a well-seasoned briar, and yet it has a fascination all its

own. It is equally dear to those who work hard and those who loaf with

intensity. When you put your nose to the blackened mouth of the hot cob

its odor is quite different from that fragrance of the crusted wooden

bowl. There is a faint bitterness in it, a sour, plaintive aroma. It is

a pipe that seems to call aloud for the accompaniment of beer and

earnest argument on factional political matters. It is also the pipe

for solitary vigils of hard and concentrated work. It is the pipe that a

man keeps in the drawer of his desk for savage hours of extra toil after

the stenographer has powdered her nose and gone home.

A corncob pipe is a humble badge of philosophy, an evidence of tolerance

and even humor. It requires patience and good cheer, for it is slow to

"break in." Those who meditate bestial and brutal designs against the

weak and innocent do not smoke it. Probably Hindenburg never saw one.

Missouri's reputation for incredulity may be due to the corncob habit.

One who is accustomed to consider an argument over a burning nest of

tobacco, with the smoke fuming upward in a placid haze, will not accept

any dogma too immediately.

There is a singular affinity among those who smoke corncobs. A Missouri

meerschaum whose bowl is browned and whose fiber stem is frayed and

stringy with biting betrays a meditative and reasonable owner. He will

have pondered all aspects of life and be equally ready to denounce any

of them, but without bitterness. If you see a man on a street corner

smoking a cob it will be safe to ask him to watch the baby a minute

while you slip around the corner. You would even be safe in asking him

to lend you a five. He will be safe, too, because he won't have it.

Think, therefore, of the charm of a town where corncob pipes are the

chief industry. Think of them stacked up in bright yellow piles in the

warehouse. Think of the warm sun and the wholesome sweetness of broad

acres that have grown into the pith of the cob. Think of the bright-eyed

Missouri maidens who have turned and scooped and varnished and packed

them. Think of the airy streets and wide pavements of Boonville, and the

corner drug stores with their shining soda fountains and grape-juice

bottles. Think of sitting out on that bluff on a warm evening, watching

the broad shimmer of the river slipping down from the sunset, and

smoking a serene pipe while the local flappers walk in the coolness

wearing crisp, swaying gingham dresses. That's the kind of town we like

to think about.