Lastly, old Mohi the chronicler's. Its Death's-head bowl forming its
latter end, continually reminding him of his own. Its shank was an
ostrich's leg, some feathers still waving nigh the mouth-piece.

"Here, Vee-Vee! fill me up again," cried Media, through the blue
vapors sweeping round his great gonfalon, like plumed Marshal Ney,
waving his baton in the smoke of Waterloo; or thrice gallant Anglesea,
crossing his wooden eg mid the reek and rack of the Apsley House
banquet.

Vee-Vee obeyed; and quickly, like a howitzer, the pipe-owl was
reloaded to the muzzle, and King Media smoked on.

"Ah! this is pleasant indeed," he cried. "Look, it's a calm on the
waters, and a calm in our hearts, as we inhale these sedative odors."

"So calm," said Babbalanja; "the very gods must be smoking now."

"And thus," said Media, "we demi-gods hereafter shall cross-legged
sit, and smoke out our eternities. Ah, what a glorious puff! Mortals,
methinks these pipe-bowls of ours must be petrifactions of roses, so
scented they seem. But, old Mohi, you have smoked this many a long
year; doubtless, you know something about their material--the Froth-
of-the-Sea they call it, I think--ere my handicraft subjects obtain
it, to work into bowls. Tell us the tale."

"Delighted to do so, my lord," replied Mohi, slowly disentangling his
mouth-piece from the braids of his beard. "I have devoted much time
and attention to the study of pipe-bowls, and groped among many