Chapter 12

Have you read how Julius Cæsar Made a call on Cicero In his modest Formian villa, Many and many a year ago?

"I shall pass your way," wrote Cæsar, "On the Saturnalia, Third, And I'll just drop in, my Tullius, For a quiet friendly word:

"Don't make a stranger of me, Marc, Nor be at all put out, A snack of anything you have Will serve my need, no doubt.

"I wish to show my confidence-- The invitation's mine-- I come to share your simple food, And taste your honest wine."

Up rose M. Tullius Cicero, And seized a Roman punch,-- Then mused upon the god-like soul Was coming round to lunch.

"By Hercules!" he murmured low Unto his lordly self, "There are not many dainties left Upon my pantry shelf!

"But what I have shall Julius share. What, ho!" he proudly cried, "Great Cæsar comes this way anon To sit my chair beside.

"A dish of lampreys quickly stew, And cook them with a turn, For that's his favorite pabulum From Mamurra I learn."

* * * * *

His slaves obey their lord's command; The table soon is laid For two distinguished gentlemen,-- One rather bald, 'tis said.

When lo! a messenger appears To sound approach--and then, "Brave Cæsar comes to greet his friend With _twice a thousand men_!

"His cohorts rend the air with shouts; That is their dust you see; The trumpeters announce him near!" Said Marcus, "Woe is me!

"Fly, Cassius, fly! assign a guard! Borrow what tents you can! Encamp his soldiers round the field, Or I'm a ruined man!

"Get sheep and oxen by the score! Buy corn at any price! O Jupiter! befriend me now, And give me your advice!"

* * * * *

It turned out better than he feared,-- Things proved enough and good,-- And Cæsar made himself at home, And much enjoyed his food.

But Marcus had an awful fright,-- _That_ can not be denied; "I'm glad 'tis over!"--when it was-- The host sat down and sighed,

And when he wrote to Atticus, And all the story told, He ended his epistle thus: "J.C.'s a warrior bold,

"A vastly entertaining man, In Learning quite immense, So full of literary skill, And most uncommon sense,

"But, frankly, I should never say 'No trouble, sir, at all; And when you pass this way again, _Give us another call!_'"

COMIN' HOME THANKSGIVIN'

BY JAMES BALL NAYLOR

I've clean fergot my rheumatiz-- Hain't nary limp n'r hobble; I'm feelin' like a turkey-cock-- An' ready 'most to gobble; I'm workin' spry, an' steppin' high-- An' thinkin' life worth livin'. Fer all the children's comin' home All comin' home Thanksgivin'.

There's Mary up at Darby Town, An' Sally down at Goshen, An' Billy out at Kirkersville, An' Jim--who has a notion That Hackleyburg's the very place Fer which his soul has striven; They're all a-comin' home ag'in-- All comin' home Thanksgivin'.

Yes--yes! They're all a-comin' back; There ain't no ifs n'r maybes. The boys'll fetch the'r wives an' kids; The gals, th'r men an' babies. The ol' place will be upside-down; An' me an' Mammy driven To roost out in the locus' trees-- When they come home Thanksgivin'.

Fer Mary she has three 'r four Mis_chee_vous little tykes, sir, An' Sally has a houseful more-- You never seen the like, sir; While Jim has six, an' Billy eight-- They'll tear the house to flinders, An' dig the cellar out in chunks An' pitch it through the winders.

The gals 'll tag me to the barn; An' climb the mows, an' waller All over ev'ry ton o' hay-- An' laugh an' scream an' holler. The boys 'll git in this an' that; An' git a lickin'--p'r'aps, sir-- Jest like the'r daddies used to git When _they_ was little chaps, sir.

But--lawzee-me!--w'y, I won't care. I'm jest so glad they're comin', I have to whistle to the tune That my ol' heart's a-hummin'. An' me an' Mammy--well, we think It's good to be a-livin', Sence all the children's comin' home To spend the day Thanksgivin'.

PRAISE-GOD BAREBONES

BY ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON CORTISSOZ

I and my cousin Wildair met And tossed a pot together-- Burnt sack it was that Molly brewed, For it was nipping weather. 'Fore George! To see Dick buss the wench Set all the inn folk laughing! They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers At kissing and at quaffing.

"Oddsfish!" says Dick, "the sack is rare, And rarely burnt, fair Molly; 'Twould cure the sourest Crop-ear yet Of Pious Melancholy." "Egad!" says I, "here cometh one Hath been at 's prayers but lately." --Sooth, Master Praise-God Barebones stepped Along the street sedately.

Dick Wildair, with a swashing bow, And touch of his Toledo, Gave Merry Xmas to the rogue And bade him say his Credo; Next crush a cup to the King's health, And eke to pretty Molly; "'T will cure your saintliness," says Dick, "Of Pious Melancholy."

Then Master Barebones stopped and frowned; My heart stood still a minute; Thinks I, both Dick and I will hang, Or else the devil's in it! For me, I care not for old Noll, Nor all the Rump together. Yet, faith! 't is best to be alive In pleasant Xmas weather.

His worship, Barebones, grimly smiled; "I love not blows nor brawling; Yet will I give thee, fool, a pledge!" And, zooks! he sent Dick sprawling! When Moll and I helped Wildair up, No longer trim and jolly-- "Feelst not, Sir Dick," says saucy Moll, "A Pious Melancholy?"

THE LOAFER AND THE SQUIRE

BY PORTE CRAYON

The squire himself was the type of a class found only among the rural population of our Southern States--a class, the individuals of which are connected by a general similarity of position and circumstance, but present a field to the student of man infinite in variety, rich in originality.

As the isolated oak that spreads his umbrageous top in the meadow surpasses his spindling congener of the forest, so does the country gentleman, alone in the midst of his broad estate, outgrow the man of crowds and conventionalities in our cities. The oak may have the advantage in the comparison, as his locality and consequent superiority are permanent. The Squire, out of his own district, we ignore. Whether intrinsically, or simply in default of comparison, at home he is invariably a great man. Such, at least, was Squire Hardy. Sour and cynical in speech, yet overflowing with human kindness; contemning luxury and expense in dress and equipage, but princely in his hospitality; praising the olden time to the disparagement of the present; the mortal foe of progressionists and fast people in every department; above all, a philosopher of his own school, he judged by the law of Procrustes, and permitted no appeals; opinionated and arbitrary as the Czar, he was sauced by his negroes, respected and loved by his neighbors, led by the nose by his wife and daughters, and the abject slave of his grandchildren.

His house was as big as a barn, and, as his sons and daughters married, they brought their mates home to the old mansion. "It will be time enough for them to hive," quoth the Squire, "when the old box is full."

Notwithstanding his contempt for fast men nowadays, he is rather pleased with any allusion to his own youthful reputation in that line, and not unfrequently tells a good story on himself. We can not omit one told by a neighbor, as being characteristic of the times and manners forty years ago:

At Culpepper Court-house, or some court-house thereabout, Dick Hardy, then a good-humored, gay young bachelor, and the prime favorite of both sexes, was called upon to carve the pig at the court dinner. The district judge was at the table, the lawyers, justices, and everybody else that felt disposed to dine. At Dick's right elbow sat a militia colonel, who was tricked out in all the pomp and circumstance admitted by his rank. He had probably been engaged on some court-martial, imposing fifty-cent fines on absentees from the last general muster. Howbeit Dick, in thrusting his fork into the back of the pig, bespattered the officer's regimentals with some of the superfluous gravy. "Beg your pardon," said Dick, as he went on with his carving. Now these were times when the war spirit was high, and chivalry at a premium. "Beg your pardon" might serve as a napkin to wipe the stain from one's honor, but did not touch the question of the greased and spotted regimentals.

The colonel, swelling with wrath, seized a spoon, and deliberately dipping it into the gravy, dashed it over Dick's prominent shirt-frill.

All saw the act, and with open eyes and mouth sat in astonished silence, waiting to see what would be done next. The outraged citizen calmly laid down his knife and fork, and looked at his frill, the officer, and the pig, one after another. The colonel, unmindful of the pallid countenance and significant glances of the burning eye, leaned back in his chair, with arms akimbo, regarding the young farmer with cool disdain. A murmur of surprise and indignation arose from the congregated guests. Dick's face turned red as a turkey-gobbler's. He deliberately took the pig by the hind legs, and with a sudden whirl brought it down upon the head of the unlucky officer. Stunned by the squashing blow, astounded and blinded with streams of gravy and wads of stuffing, he attempted to rise, but blow after blow from the fat pig fell upon his bewildered head. He seized a carving-knife and attempted to defend himself with blind but ineffectual fury, and at length, with a desperate effort, rose and took to his heels. Dick Hardy, whose wrath waxed hotter and hotter, followed, belaboring him unmercifully at every step, around the table, through the hall, and into the street, the crowd shouting and applauding.

We are sorry to learn that among this crowd were lawyers, sheriffs, magistrates, and constables; and that even his honor the judge, forgetting his dignity and position, shouted in a loud voice, "Give it to him, Dick Hardy! There's no law in Christendom against basting a man with a roast pig!" Dick's weapon failed before his anger; and when at length the battered colonel escaped into the door of a friendly dwelling, the victor had nothing in his hands but the hind legs of the roaster. He re-entered the dining-room flourishing these over his head, and venting his still unappeased wrath in great oaths.

The company reassembled, and finished their dinner as best they might. In reply to a toast, Hardy made a speech, wherein he apologized for sacrificing the principal dinner-dish, and, as he expressed it, for putting public property to private uses. In reply to this speech a treat was ordered. In those good old days folks were not so virtuous but that a man might have cakes and ale without being damned for it, and it is presumable the day wound up with a spree.

After the squire got older, and a family grew up around him, he was not always victorious in his contests. For example, a question lately arose about the refurnishing of the house. On their return from a visit to Richmond the ladies took it into their heads that the parlors looked bare and old-fashioned, and it was decided by them in secret conclave that a change was necessary.

"What!" said he, in a towering passion, "isn't it enough that you spend your time and money in vinegar to sour sweet peaches, and your sugar to sweeten crab-apples, that you must turn the house you were born in topsy-turvy? God help us! we've a house with windows to let the light in, and you want curtains to keep it out; we've plastered the walls to make them white, and now you want to paste blue paper over them; we've waxed floors to walk on, and we must pay two dollars a yard for a carpet to save the oak plank! Begone with your nonsense, ye demented jades!"

The squire smote the oak floor with his heavy cane, and the rosy petitioners fled from his presence laughing. In due time, however, the parlors were furnished with carpets, curtains, paper, and all the fixtures of modern luxury. The ladies were, of course, greatly delighted; and while professing great aversion and contempt for the "tawdry lumber," it was plain to see that the worthy man enjoyed their pleasure as much as they did the new furniture.

On another occasion, too, did the doughty squire suffer defeat under circumstances far more humiliating, and from an adversary far less worthy.

The western horizon was blushing rosy red at the coming of the sun, whose descending chariot was hidden by the thick Indian-summer haze that covered lowland and mountain as it were with a violet-tinted veil. This was the condition of things (we were going to say) when Squire Hardy sallied forth, charged with a small bag of salt, for the purpose of looking after his farm generally, and particularly of salting his sheep. It was an interesting sight to see the old gentleman, with his dignified, portly figure, marching at the head of a long procession of improved breeds--the universally-received emblems of innocence and patience. Barring his modern costume, he might have suggested to the artist's mind a picture of one of the Patriarchs.

Having come to a convenient place, or having tired himself crying _co-nan_, _co-nan_, at the top of his voice, the squire halted. The black ram halted, and the long procession of ewes and well-grown lambs moved up in a dense semicircle, and also halted, expressing their pleasure at the expected treat by gentle bleatings. The squire stooped to spread the salt. The black ram, either from most uncivil impatience, or mistaking the movement of the proprietor's coat-tail for a challenge, pitched into him incontinently. "_Plenum sed_," as the Oxonions say. An attack from behind, so sudden and unexpected, threw the squire sprawling on his face into a stone pile.

Oh, never was the thunder's jar, The red tornado's wasting wing, Or all the elemental war,

like the fury of Squire Hardy on that occasion.

He recovered his feet with the agility of a boy, his nose bleeding and a stone in each hand. The timid flock looked all aghast, while the audacious offender, so far from having shown any disposition to skulk, stood shaking his head and threatening, as if he had a mind to follow up the dastardly attack. The squire let fly one stone, which grazed the villain's head and killed a lamb. With the other he crippled a favorite ewe. The ram still showed fight, and the vengeful proprietor would probably have soon decimated his flock had not Porte Crayon (who had been squirrel-shooting) made his appearance in time to save them.

"Quick, quick! young man--your gun; let me shoot the cursed brute on the spot."

The squire was frantic with rage, the cause of which our hero, having seen something of the affray, easily divined. He was unwilling, however, to trust his hair-triggered piece in the hands of his excited host.

"By your leave, Squire, and by your orders, I'll do the shooting myself. Which of them was it?"

"The ram--the d----d black ram--kill him--shoot--don't let him live a minute!"

Crayon leveled his piece and fired. The offender made a bound and fell dead, the black blood spouting from his forehead in a stream as thick as your thumb.

"There, now," exclaimed the squire, with infinite satisfaction, "you've got it, you ungrateful brute! You've found something harder than your own head at last, you cursed reptile! Friend Crayon, that's a capital gun of yours, and you shot well."

The squire dropped the stones which he had in his hands, and looking back at the dead body of the belligerent sheep, observed, with a thoughtful air, "He was a fine animal, Mr. Crayon--a fine animal, and this will teach him a good lesson."

"In all likelihood," replied Crayon, dryly, "it will break him of this trick of butting."

Not long after this occurrence, Squire Hardy went to hear an itinerant phrenologist who lectured in the village. In the progress of his discourse, the lecturer, for purposes of illustration, introduced the skulls of several animals, mapped off in the most correct and scientific manner.

"Observe, ladies and gentlemen, the head of the wolf: combativeness enormously developed, alimentiveness large, while conscientiousness is entirely wanting. On the other hand, look at this cranium. Here combativeness is a nullity--absolutely wanting--while the fullness of the sentimental organs indicate at once the mild and peaceful disposition of the sheep."

The squire, who had listened with great attention up to this point, hastily rose to his feet.

"A sheep!" he exclaimed; "did you call a sheep a peaceful animal? I tell you, sir, it is the most ferocious and unruly beast in existence. Sir, I had a ram once--"

"My dear sir," cried the astonished lecturer, "on the authority of our most distinguished writers, the sheep is an emblem of peace and innocence."

"An emblem of the devil," interrupted the squire, boiling over. "You are an ignorant impostor, and your science a humbug. I had a ram once that would have taught you more in five seconds than you've learned from books in all your lifetime."

And so Squire Hardy put on his hat and walked out, leaving the lecturer to rectify his blunder as best he might.

DE STOVE PIPE HOLE[7]

BY WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND

Dat's very cole an' stormy night on Village St. Mathieu, W'en ev'ry wan he's go couché, an' dog was quiet, too-- Young Dominique is start heem out see Emmeline Gourdon, Was leevin' on her fader's place, Maxime de Forgeron.

Poor Dominique he's lak dat girl, an' love her mos' de tam, An' she was mak' de promise--sure--some day she be his famme, But she have worse ole fader dat's never on de worl', Was swear onless he's riche lak diable, no feller's get hees girl.

He's mak' it plaintee fuss about hees daughter Emmeline, Dat's mebby nice girl, too, but den, Mon Dieu, she's not de queen! An' w'en de young man's come aroun' for spark it on de door, An' hear de ole man swear "Bapteme!" he's never come no more.

Young Dominique he's sam' de res',--was scare for ole Maxime, He don't lak risk hese'f too moche for chances seein' heem, Dat's only stormy night he come, so dark you can not see, An dat's de reason w'y also, he's climb de gallerie.

De girl she's waitin' dere for heem--don't care about de rain, So glad for see young Dominique he's comin' back again, Dey bote forget de ole Maxime, an' mak de embrasser An affer dey was finish dat, poor Dominique is say--

"Good-by, dear Emmeline, good-by; I'm goin' very soon, For you I got no better chance, dan feller on de moon-- It's all de fault your fader, too, dat I be go away, He's got no use for me at all--I see dat ev'ry day.

"He's never meet me on de road but he is say 'Sapré!' An' if he ketch me on de house I'm scare he's killin' me, So I mus' lef' ole St. Mathieu, for work on 'noder place, An' till I mak de beeg for-tune, you never see ma face."

Den Emmeline say "Dominique, ma love you'll alway be An' if you kiss me two, t'ree tam I'll not tole noboddy-- But prenez garde ma fader, please, I know he's gettin' ole-- All sam' he offen walk de house upon de stockin' sole.

"Good-by, good-by, cher Dominique! I know you will be true, I don't want no riche feller me, ma heart she go wit' you," Dat's very quick he's kiss her den, before de fader come, But don't get too moche pleasurement--so 'fraid de ole Bonhomme.

Wall! jus' about dey're half way t'roo wit all dat love beez-nesse Emmeline say, "Dominique, w'at for you're scare lak all de res'? Don't see mese'f moche danger now de ole man come aroun'," W'en minute affer dat, dere's noise, lak' house she's fallin' down.

Den Emmeline she holler "Fire! will no wan come for me?" An' Dominique is jomp so high, near bus' de gallerie,-- "Help! help! right off," somebody shout, "I'm killin' on ma place, It's all de fault ma daughter, too, dat girl she's ma disgrace."

He's kip it up long tam lak dat, but not hard tellin' now, W'at's all de noise upon de house--who's kick heem up de row? It seem Bonhomme was sneak aroun' upon de stockin' sole, An' firs' t'ing den de ole man walk right t'roo de stove pipe hole.

W'en Dominique is see heem dere, wit' wan leg hang below, An' 'noder leg straight out above, he's glad for ketch heem so-- De ole man can't do not'ing, den, but swear and ax for w'y Noboddy tak' heem out dat hole before he's comin' die.

Den Dominique he spik lak dis, "Mon cher M'sieur Gourdon I'm not riche city feller, me, I'm only habitant, But I was love more I can tole your daughter Emmeline, An' if I marry on dat girl, Bagosh! she's lak de Queen.

"I want you mak de promise now, before it's come too late, An' I mus' tole you dis also, dere's not moche tam for wait. Your foot she's hangin' down so low, I'm 'fraid she ketch de cole, Wall! if you give me Emmeline, I pull you out de hole."

Dat mak' de ole man swear more hard he never swear before, An' wit' de foot he's got above, he's kick it on de floor, "Non, non," he say "Sapré tonnerre! she never marry you, An' if you don't look out you get de jail on St. Mathieu."

"Correc'," young Dominique is say, "mebbe de jail's tight place, But you got wan small corner, too, I see it on de face, So if you don't lak geev de girl on wan poor habitant, Dat's be mese'f, I say, Bonsoir, mon cher M'sieur Gourdon."

"Come back, come back," Maxime is shout--"I promise you de girl, I never see no wan lak you--no never on de worl'! It's not de nice trick you was play on man dat's gettin' ole, But do jus' w'at you lak, so long you pull me out de hole."

"Hooraw! Hooraw!" Den Dominique is pull heem out tout suite An' Emmeline she's helpin' too for place heem on de feet, An' affer dat de ole man's tak' de young peep down de stair, W'ere he is go couché right off, an' dey go on parloir.

Nex' Sunday morning dey was call by M'sieur le Curé Get marry soon, an' ole Maxime geev Emmeline away; Den affer dat dey settle down lak habitant is do, An' have de mos' fine familee on Village St. Mathieu.

[Footnote 7: From "The Habitant and Other French Canadian Poems," by William Henry Drummond. Copyright 1897 by G.P. Putnam's Sons.]

THE GIRL FROM MERCURY

AN INTERPLANETARY LOVE STORY

_Being the Interpretation of Certain Phonic Vibragraphs Recorded by the Long's Peak Wireless Installation, Now for the First Time Made Public Through the Courtesy of Professor Caducious, Ph.D., Sometime Secretary of the Boulder Branch of the Association for the Advancement of Interplanetary Communication._

BY HERMAN KNICKERBOCKER VIELÉ

It is evident that the following logograms form part of a correspondence between a young lady, formerly of Mercury, and her confidential friend still resident upon the inferior planet. The translator has thought it best to preserve, as far as possible, the spirit of the original by the employment of mundane colloquialisms; the result, in spite of many regrettable trivialities, will, it is believed, be of interest to students of Cosmic Sociology.

THE FIRST RECORD