It came to the editor of the "Herald" as he climbed to the top rail of the fence for a seat, and he drew a long, deep breath to get the elusive odor more luxuriously--and then it was gone altogether.
"A habit of delicacies," he said aloud, addressing the wide silence complainingly.

He drew a faded tobacco-bag and a brier pipe from his coat pocket and filled and lit the pipe.

"One taste--and they quit," he finished, gazing solemnly upon the shining little town down the road.
He twirled the pouch mechanically about his finger, and then, suddenly regarding it, patted it caressingly.

It had been a giddy little bag, long ago, satin, and gay with embroidery in the colors of the editor's university; and although now it was frayed to the verge of tatters, it still bore an air of pristine jauntiness, an air of which its owner in no wise partook.

He looked from it over the fields toward the town in the clear distance and sighed softly as he put the pouch back in his pocket, and, resting his arm on his knee and his chin in his hand, sat blowing clouds of smoke out of the shade into the sunshine, absently watching the ghostly shadows dance on the white dust of the road.
A little garter snake crept under the fence beneath him and disappeared in the underbrush; a rabbit progressing timidly on his travels by a series of brilliant dashes and terror-smitten halts, came within a few yards of him, sat up with quivering nose and eyes alight with fearful imaginings--vanished, a flash of fluffy brown and white.