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