The Wit and Humor of America
Chapter 102 : Up rose M. Tullius Cicero, And seized a Roman punch,-- Then mused upon the G.o.d-like

Up rose M. Tullius Cicero, And seized a Roman punch,-- Then mused upon the G.o.d-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 Caesar 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 Caesar 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, Ca.s.sius, fly! a.s.sign 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 Caesar 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 pa.s.s 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-c.o.c.k-- 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-G.o.d 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 d.i.c.k buss the wench Set all the inn folk laughing!

They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers At kissing and at quaffing.

"Oddsfis.h.!.+" says d.i.c.k, "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-G.o.d Barebones stepped Along the street sedately.

d.i.c.k Wildair, with a swas.h.i.+ng 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 d.i.c.k, "Of Pious Melancholy."

Then Master Barebones stopped and frowned; My heart stood still a minute; Thinks I, both d.i.c.k 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 wors.h.i.+p, Barebones, grimly smiled; "I love not blows nor brawling; Yet will I give thee, fool, a pledge!"

And, zooks! he sent d.i.c.k sprawling!

When Moll and I helped Wildair up, No longer trim and jolly-- "Feelst not, Sir d.i.c.k," says saucy Moll, "A Pious Melancholy?"

THE LOAFER AND THE SQUIRE

BY PORTE CRAYON

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