"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 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 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.