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violent cold, dating from that instant. I don't doubt he
would cut his kitten's tail off, if he caught her playing
with it. Please tell me, who taught her to play with it ?




Have you read how Julius Caesar

Made a call on Cicero
In his modest Formian villa,

Many and many a year ago?

**I shall pass your way," wrote Caesar,
"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 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 gpreet his friend
With tzifice 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 Csesar made himself at home,
And much enjoyed his food.

But Marcus had an awful fright, —
That can not be denied ;
*T'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!' "




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

Misc/t^rvous 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 '11 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 'II 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'.




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 —
Teelst not. Sir Dick," says saucy Moll,

"A Pious Melancholy?"




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 gen-
eral similarity of position and circumstance, but present
a field to the student of man infinite in variety, rich in

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 conse-
quent superiority are permanent. The Squire, out of his
own district, we ignore. Whether intrinsically, or sim-
ply 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 kind-
ness; contemning luxury and expense in dress and equi-
page, 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 ; opinion-
ated 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

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 nowa-
days, 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 there-
about, 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 every-
body 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, im-
posing 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 de-
liberately took the pig by the hind legs, and with a sud-
den 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 po-
sition, 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 noth-
ing 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 princi-
pal dinner-dish, and, as he expressed it, for putting pub-
lic 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 con-
tests. For example, a question lately arose about the re-
furnishing 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



On another occasion, too, did the doughty squire suffer
defeat under circumstances far more humihating, 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 pro-
cession 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 in-
continently. "Plenum sed," as the Oxonions say. An at-
tack 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 shak-
ing his head and threatening, as if he had a mind to fol-
low 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 proba-
bly 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 satis-
faction, "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 belliger-
ent 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 pf his discourse, the lecturer, for pur-
poses of illustration, introduced the skulls of several ani-
mals, mapped off in the most correct and scientific man-

"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 peace-
ful 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, boil-
ing 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




Dat's very cole an' stormy night on Village St. Mathieu,
Wen ev'ry wan he's go couche, an' dog was quiet, too —
Young Dominique is start heem out see Emmeline Gour-

Was leevin' on her fader's place, Maxime de Forgeron.

Poor Dominique he's lak dat girl, an' love her mos' de

An' she was mak' de promise — sure — some day she be his

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


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

An' hear de ole man swear "Bapteme!" he's never come

no more.

*From "The Habitant and Other French Canadian Poems," by
William Henry Drummond. Copyright 1897 by G. P. Putnam's Sons.



Young Dominique he's sam' de res', — was scare for ole

He don't lak risk hese'f too moche for chances seein'

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

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 'Sapre !'
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

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 pleasurcment — so 'fraid de ole




Wall! jus' about dey're half way t'roo wit all dat love

Emmeline say, "Dominique, w'at for you're scare lak all

de res' ?
Don't see mese'f mpche danger now de ole man come

Wen minute affer dat, dere's noise, lak' house she's fallin'


Den Emmeline she holler "Fire! will no wan come for

An' Dominique is jomp so high, near bus' de gallerie, —

"Help ! help I right off," somebody shout, "I'm killin' on
ma place.

It's all de fault ma daughter, top, dat girl she's ma dis-

He's kip it up long tam lak dat, but not hard tellin' now,
Wat's all de noise upon de house — who's kick heem up

de row ?
It seem Bonhomme was sneak aroun' upon de stockin'

An' firs' t'ing den de ole man walk right t'roo de stove

pipe hole.

Wen Dominique is see heem dere, wit' wan leg hang be-

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

Noboddy tak' heem out dat hole before he's comin' die.



Den Dominique he spik lak dis, "Mon cher M'sieur Gour-

I'm not riche city feller, me, I'm only habitant,
But I was love more I can tola 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

An' I mus' tole you dis also, dere's not moche tarn for

Your foot she's hangin' down so low, I'm 'fraid she ketch

de cole,
Wall ! if you give me Emmeline, I pull you put de hole."

Dat mak' de ole man swear more hard he never swear be-

An' wit' de foot he's got above^ he's kick it on de floor,

"Non, non," he say "Sapre tonnerrc! she never marry

An' if you don't look out you get de jail on St. Mathieu."

"Correc'," young Dominique is say, "mebbe de jail's tight

But you got wan small comer, 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 Gour-


"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

Were he is go couche right off, an' dey go on parloir.

Nex' Sunday morning dey was call by M'sieur le Cure
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.


An Interplanetary Love Story

Being the Interpretation of Certain Phonic Vihragraphs
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 Boidder Branch of the Association for
the Advancement of Interplanetary Communication.


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 re-
sult, in spite of many regrettable trivialities, will, it is be-
lieved, be of interest to students of Cosmic Sociology.

The First Record

Yes, dear, it's me. I'm down here on the Earth and in
our Settlement House, safe and sound. I meant to have
called you up before, but really this is the first moment I
have had to myself all day. — Yes, of course, I said "all
day." You know very well they have days and nights
here, because this restless little planet spins, or something
of the sort. — I haven't the least idea why it does so, and



I don't care. — I did not come here to make intelligent ob-
servations like a dowdy "Seeing Saturn" tourist. So
don't be Uranian. Try to exercise intuitive perception if
I say anything you can't understand. — What is that? —
Please concentrate a little harder. — Oh ! Yes, I have seen
a lot of human beings already, and would you believe it ?

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