"It's pretty drass dat she's got on, I lak' de polonaise, Vere bodice it is all meex op Vit jabot all de vays. Dat's hang in front vit pleats all roun’— It is von fin' tableau." An' den Charlotte she turn to me An' ask me how I know So moch about de Beeg Horse Show, An' den I op an' tol' her dere Read papier, I fin' out I point to ladee in nex' box, I vish I could haf' vords enough De firs' part it vas nodding moch, An' den dere is commence a line She's not a vord to say. An' den com' yard of crêpe de chine, Vit omelette stripe beneadt', All fill it op vit fine guimpe jew'ls An' concertina pleat. Mon Dieu! an' who vould evere t'ink De dry-goods bill dey pay, Dere's nodding lef' to spen' on horse Ontil som' odder day. I tell you every hour you leeve, I'm geeve to you, of course, THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER OF AMERIKY BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY Of course as fur as Checker-playin's concerned, you can't jest adzackly claim 'at lots makes fortunes and lots gits bu'sted at it-but still, it's on'y simple jestice to acknowledge 'at there're absolute p'ints in the game 'at takes scientific principles to figger out, and a mighty levelheaded feller to dimonstrate, don't you understand! Checkers is a' old enough game, ef age is any rickommendation; and it's a' evident fact, too, 'at "the tooth of time,” as the feller says, which fer the last six thousand years has gained some reputation fer a-eatin' up things in giner❜l, don't 'pear to 'a' gnawed much of a hole in Checkers-jedgin' from the checker-board of to-day and the ones 'at they're uccasionally shovellin' out at Pomp'y-i, er whatever its name is. Turned up a checker-board there not long ago, I wuz readin' 'bout, 'at still had the spots on-as plain and fresh as the modern white-pine board o' our'n, squared off with pencil-marks and pokeberryjuice. These is facts 'at history herself has dug out, and of course it ain't fer me ner you to turn our nose up at Checkers, whuther we ever tamper with the fool-game er not. Fur's that's concerned, I don't p'tend to be no checker-player myse'f,-but I know'd a feller onc't 'at could play, and sorto' made a business of it; and that man, in my opinion, was a geenyus! Name wuz Wesley Cotterl-John Wesley Cotterl-jest plain Wes, as us fellers round the Shoe-Shop ust to call him; ust to allus make the Shoe-Shop his headquarters-like; and, rain er shine, wet er dry, you'd allus find Wes on hands, ready to banter some feller fer a game, er jest a-settin' humped up there over the checker-board all alone, a-cipher'n' out some new move er 'nuther, and whistlin' low and solem' to hisse'flike and a-payin' no attention to nobody. And I'll tell you, Wes Cotterl wuz no man's fool, as sly as you keep it! He wuz a deep thinker, Wes wuz; and ef he'd 'a' jest turned that mind o' his loose on preachin', fer instunce, and the 'terpertation o' the Bible, don't you know, Wes 'ud 'a' worked p'ints out o' there 'at no livin' expounderers ever got in gunshot of! But Wes he didn't 'pear to be cut out fer nothin' much but jest Checker-playin'. Oh, of course, he could knock round his own woodpile some, and garden a little, more er less; and the neighbers ust to find Wes purty handy 'bout trimmin' fruit-trees, you understand, and workin' in among the worms and cattapillers in the vines and shrubbery, and the like. And handlin' bees!—They wuzn't no man under the heavens 'at knowed more 'bout handlin' bees'n Wes Cotterl!-"Settlin'" the blame' things when they wuz a-swarmin'; and a-robbin' hives, and all sich fool-resks. W'y, I've saw Wes Cotterl, 'fore now, when a swarm of bees 'ud settle in a' orchard,—like they will sometimes, you know,-I've saw Wes Cotterl jest roll up his shirt-sleeves and bend down a' apple tree limb 'at wuz jest kivvered with the pesky things, and scrape 'em back into the hive with his naked hands, by the quart and gallon, and never git a scratch! You couldn't hire a bee to sting Wes Cotterl! But lazy?—I think that man had railly ort to 'a' been a' Injun! He wuz the fust and on'y man 'at ever I laid eyes on 'at wuz too lazy to drap a checker-man to p'int out the right road fer a feller 'at ast him onc't the way to Burke's Mill; and Wes, 'ithout ever a-liftin' eye er finger, jest sorto' crooked out that mouth o' his'n in the direction the feller wanted, and says: "H-yonder!" and went on with his whistlin'. But all this hain't Checkers, and that's what I started out to tell ye. Wes had a way o' jest natchurly a-cleanin' out anybody and ever’body 'at 'ud he'p hold up a checker-board! Wes wuzn't what you'd call a lively player at all, ner a competiter 'at talked much 'crost the board er made much furse over a game whilse he wus a-playin'. He had his faults, o' course, and would take back moves 'casion'ly, er inch up on you ef you didn't watch him, mebby. But, as a rule, Wes had the insight to grasp the idy of whoever wuz a-playin' ag'in' him, and his style o' game, you understand, and wuz on the lookout continual'; and under sich circumstances could play as honest a game o' Checkers as the babe unborn. One thing in Wes's favor allus wuz the feller's temper. -Nothin' 'peared to aggervate Wes, and nothin' on earth could break his slow and lazy way o' takin' his own time fer ever thing. You jest couldn't crowd Wes er git him rattled anyway. Jest 'peared to have one fixed principle, and that wuz to take plenty o' time, and never make no move 'ithout a-ciphern'n' ahead on the prob❜ble consequences, don't you understand! "Be shore you're right," Wes 'ud say, a-lettin' up fer a second on that low and sorry-like little wind-through-the-keyhole whistle o' his, and a-nosin' out a place whur he could swap one man fer two.-"Be shore you're right"—and somep'n' after this style wuz Wes's way: "Be shore you're right”—(whistling a long, lonesome bar of "Barbara Allen")—"and then”—(another long, retarded bar)—“go ahead!”—and by the time the feller 'ud git through with his whistlin', and a-stoppin' and a-startin' in ag'in, he'd be about three |