COLLIER "MEMORIAL EDITION"
"JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY COMPLETE WORKS"

Vol 9, Part 5

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DREAMS............................................................................... .........2475
THE OBJECT LESSON.......................................................... ........2480
 Ez......................................................................................................2485
THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER OF AMERIKY............... 2489
THE JUDKINS PAPERS......................................................... ........2501
 

DREAMS

"Do I sleep, do I dream,

Do I wonder and doubt—Are things what they seem

Or is visions about?"

T

HERE has always been an inclination, or de- I sire, rather, on my part to believe in the mystic —even as far back as stretches the gum-elastic re­membrance of my first "taffy-pullin' " given in honor of my fifth birthday; and the ghost-stories, served by way of ghastly dessert, by our hired girl. In fancy I again live over all the scenes of that event­ful night :—

The dingy kitchen, with its haunting odors of a thousand feasts and wash-days ; the old bench-leg­ged stove, with its happy family of skillets, stew-pans and round-bellied kettles crooning and blub­bering about it. And how we children clustered round the genial hearth, with the warm smiles dying from our faces just as the embers dimmed and died out in the open grate, as with bated breath we listened to how some one's grandmother had said that her first man went through a graveyard once, one stormy night, "jest to show the neighbors that he wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and how when he was

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2476                                  DREAMS

just passing the grave of his first wife "something kind o' big and white-like, with great big eyes like fire, raised up from behind the headboard, and kind o' re'ched out for him"; and how he turned and fled, "with that-air white thing after him as tight as it could jump, and a hollerin"wough-yough­yough!' till you could hear it furder'n you could a bullgine," and how, at last, just as the brave and daring intruder was clearing two graves and the fence at one despairing leap, the "white thing," had made a grab at him with its iron claws, and had nicked him so close his second wife was occasioned the onerous duty of affixing another patch in his pantaloons. And in conclusion, our hired girl went on to state that this blood-curdling incident had so wrought upon the feelings of "the man that wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and had given him such a distaste for that particular graveyard, that he never visited it again, and even entered a clause in his will to the effect that he would ever remain an unhappy corpse should his remains be interred in the said graveyard.

I forgot my pop-corn that night; I forgot my taffy; I forgot all earthly things ; and I tossed about so feverishly in my little bed, and withal so rest­lessly, that more than once my father's admonition above the foot-board of the big bed, of "Drat youlgo to sleep, there !" foreshadowed my impending doom. And once he leaned over and made a vicious snatch at me, and holding me out at arm's length by one

DREAMS                           2477

leg, demanded in thunder-tones, "what in the name o' flames and flashes I meant, anyhow I"

I was afraid to stir a muscle from that on, in consequence of which I at length straggled off in fitful dreams—and heavens I what dreams I—A very

n g and lank, and slim and slender old woman in white knocked at the door of my vision, and I let her in. She patted me on the head—and oh! how cold her hands were! And they were very hard hands, too, and very heavy—and, horror of horrors! —they were not hands—they were claws I—they were iron I—they were like the things I had seen the hardware man yank nails out of a keg with. I quailed and shivered till the long and slim and slender old woman jerked my head up and snarled spitefully, "What's the matter with you, bub," and I said, "Nawthin'!" and she said, "Don't you dare to lie to me!" I moaned.

"Don't you like me?" she asked.

I hesitated.

"And lie if you dare!" she said—"Don't you like me?"

"Oomh-oomh I" said I.

"Why ?" said she.

"Cos, you're too long—and slim—an "­"Go on!" said she.

"—And tall!" said I.

"Ah, ha!" said she,—"and that's it, hey ?"

And then she began to grow shorter and thicker, and fatter and squattier.

2478                                   DREAMS

"And how do I suit you now ?" she wheezed at length, when she had wilted down to about the size of a large loaf of bread.

I shook more violently than ever at the fearful spectacle.

"How do you like me now?" she yelped again, "And don't you lie to me neither, or I'll swaller you whole!"

I writhed and hid my face.

"Do you like me?"

"No-o-oh !" I moaned.

She made another snatch at my hair. I felt her jagged claws sink into my very brain. I struggled and she laughed hideously.

"You don't, hey?"

"Yes, yes, I do. I love you!" said I.

"You lie! You lie l" She shrieked derisively. "You know you liel" and as I felt the iron talons sinking and gritting in my very brain, with one wild, despairing effort, I awoke.

I saw the fire gleaming in the grate, and by the light it made I dimly saw the outline of the old mantelpiece that straddled it, holding the old clock high upon its shoulders. I was awake then, and the little squatty woman with her iron talons was a dream 1 I felt an oily gladness stealing over me, and yet I shuddered to be all alone.

If only some one were awake, I thought, whose blessed company would drown all recollections of that fearful dream ; but I dared not stir or make a noise. I could only hear the ticking of the clock,

DREAMS                          2479

and my father's sullen snore. I tried to compose my thoughts to pleasant themes, but that telescopic old woman in white would rise up and mock my vain appeals, until in fancy I again saw her altitudi­nous proportions dwindling into that repulsive and revengeful figure with the iron claws, and I grew restless and attempted to sit up. Heavens some­thing yet held me by the hair. The chill sweat that betokens speedy dissolution gathered on by brow. I made another effort and arose, that deadly clutch yet fastened in my hair. Could it be possible ! The short, white woman still held me in her vengeful grasp! I could see her white dress showing from behind either of my ears. She still clung to me, and with one wild, unearthly cry of "Pap!" I started round the room.

I remember nothing further, until as the glowing morn sifted through the maple at the window, powdering with gold the drear old room, and bap­tizing with its radiance the anxious group of old home-faces leaning o'er my bed, I heard my father's voice once more rasping on my senses—"Now get the booby up, and wash that infernal wax out of his hair!"

THE OBJECT LESSON

B

ARELY a year ago I attended the Friday after- I) noon exercises of a country school. My mis­sion there, as I remember, was to refresh my mind with such material as might be gathered, for a "valedictory," which, I regret to say, was to be handed down to posterity under another signature than my own.

There was present, among a host of visitors, a pale young man of perhaps thirty years, with a tall head and bulging brow and a highly-intellectual pair of eyes and spectacles. He wore his hair with­out roach or "part" and the smile he beamed about him was ^a joy forever." He was an educator—from the East, I think I heard it rumored—anyway he was introduced to the school at last, and he bowed, and smiled, and beamed upon us all, and entertained us after the most delightfully edifying manner imaginable. And although I may fail to reproduce the exact substance of his remarks upon that highly important occasion, I think I can at least present his theme in all its coherency of detail. Addressing more particularly the primary depart­ment of the school, he said :—

"As the little exercise I am about to introduce is 2480

THE OBJECT LESSON                2481

of recent origin, and the bright, intelligent faces of the pupils before me seem rife with eager and ex­pectant interest, it will be well for me, perhaps, to offer by way of preparatory preface, a few terse words of explanation.

"The Object-Lesson is designed to fill a long-felt want, and is destined, as I think, to revolutionize, in a great degree, the educational systems of our land.—In my belief, the Object-Lesson will supply a want which I may safely say has heretofore left the most egregious and palpable traces of mental confusion and intellectual inadequacies stamped, as it were, upon the gleaming reasons of the most learned—the highest cultured, and the most emi­nently gifted and promising of our professors and scientists both at home and abroad.

"Now this deficiency—if it may be so termed—plainly has a beginning; and probing deeply with the bright, clean scalpel of experience we discover that—"As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined." To remedy, then, a deeply-seated error which for so long has rankled at the very root of educational progress throughout the land, many plausible, and we must admit, many helpful theories have been introduced to allay the painful errors resulting from the discrepancy of which we speak: but until now, nothing that seemed wholly to eradicate the defect has been discovered, and that, too, strange as it may seem, is, at last, found emanating, like the mighty river, from the simplest source, but broadening and gathering in force and power as it flows along, until,

2482                      THE OBJECT LESSON

at last, its grand and mighty current sweeps on in majesty to the vast illimitable ocean of—of—of­Success ! Ahem!

"And, now, little boys and girls, that we have had by implication, a clear and comprehensive explana­tion of the Object-Lesson and its mission, I trust you will give me your undivided attention while I endeavor—in my humble way—to direct your newly acquired knowledge through the proper channel. For instance:

"This little object I hold in my hand—who will designate it by its proper name? Come, now, let us see who will be the first to answer. 'A peanut,' says the little boy here at my right. Very good—very good I I hold, then, in my hand, a peanut. And now who will tell me, what is the peanut? A very simple question—who will answer? 'Some­thing good to eat,' says the little girl. Yes, 'some­thing good to eat,' but would it not be better to say simply that the peanut is an edible? I think so, yes. The peanut, then, is—an edible—now, all together, an edible!

"To what kingdom does the peanut belong? The animal, vegetable or mineral kingdom? A very easy question. Come, let us have prompt answers. 'The animal kingdom,' does the little boy say? Oh, no! The peanut does not belong to the animal kingdom ! Surely the little boy must be thinking of a larger object than the peanut—the elephant, perhaps. To what kingdom, then, does the peanut belong? The v-v-veg—'The vegetable kingdom,'

-t;

THE OBJECT LESSON                       2483

says the bright-faced little girl on the back seat. Ah that is better. We find then that the peanut belongs to the—what kingdom? The 'vegetable kingdom.' Very good, very good!

"And now who will tell us of what the peanut is composed. Let us have quick responses now. Time is fleeting! Of what is the peanut composed? 'The hull and the goody,' some one answers. Yes, 'the hull and the goody' in vulgar parlance, but how much better it would be to say simply, the shell and the kernel. Would not that sound better? Yes, I thought you would agree with me there!

"And now who will tell me the color of the pea­nut ! And be careful now! for I shouldn't like to hear you make the very stupid blunder I once heard a little boy make in reply to the same question. Would you like to hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut was? You would, eh? Well, now, how many of you would like to hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut was? Come now, let's have an expression. All who would like to hear what color the stupid little boy said the peanut was, may hold up their right hands. Very good, very good—there, that will do.

"Well, it was during a professional visit I wag once called upon to make to a neighboring city, where I was invited to address the children of a free school—Hands down, now, little boy—founded for the exclusive benefit of the little newsboys and bootblacks, who, it seems, had not the means to de­fray the expenses of the commonest educational

2484                    THE OBJECT LESSON

accessories, and during an object lesson identical with the one before us now—for it is a favorite one of mine—I propounded the question, what is the color of the peanut? Many answers were given in response, but none as sufficiently succinct and apropos as I deemed the facts demanded ; and so at last I personally addressed a ragged, but, as I then thought, a bright-eyed little fellow, when judge of my surprise, in reply to my question, what is the color of a peanut, the little fellow, without the slightest gleam of intelligence lighting up his face, answered, that if not scorched by roasting, the peanut was a blond.' Why, I was almost tempted to join in the general merriment his inapposite reply elicited. But I occupy your attention with trivial things; and as I notice the time allotted me has slipped away, we will drop the peanut for the pres­ent. Trusting the few facts gleaned from a topic so homely and unpromising will sink deep in your minds, in time to bloom and blossom in the fields of future usefulness—I—I—I thank yai."

EZ

"O

RTENTER be a-fishin' on Sunday? That's all you know about it. je-ru-sa-lem I what a bite! S'posin' a feller hain't got no other day to fish—S'posin' a feller sells papers ev'ry day and Sunday mornin', too, what then? 'Sides, the house ain't big enough to hold the whole famtly to-day."

The boy was not more than twelve years old. He was seated on the river bank under a clump of syca­mores about two hundred yards from the National Road bridge. Coatless, his one suspender ran over his shoulder, while his shirt filled and bagged with the soft wind that blew up from the southwest. The smell of violets was in the breeze, but the boy didn't mind that—he had a nibble. He was bare­footed—one foot. A crutch lay beside him, and the lower part of the left leg of the tow-linen trousers was empty. "Chawed off by the kyars," he said, sententiously, discouraging further questioning on the subject, spitting on a wriggling angleworm as he baited his hook. "Makes 'em bite better"—not the worms, evidently, but the fish. "Got any ter-backer?' he inquired a minute later. "Thank 'ee. Where do I live?" he continued, growing gracious under the softening influence of the weed. "Over

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2486

there in that white house. Not the one you're lookin' at—furder to the right—I live there.

"I wonder" (musingly) "how the jamboree is a-comin' on by this time? The old-un—I mean daddy, the old man—has been cuttin' up rough and mother has had to reel him in. She's a da-i-sy," he ran on, his voice changing into song in which he took cognizance of the fact that she was also "a darling" and "a dumpling." "Don't you ever go for to think that she knows I'm •a-fishin'--for she don't. My mother's not that sort, not by a jay-you­gee, jugful. My mother is a lady and a Methodist, an' a mighty nice mess she made of it when she married the old man. Not that he's always been tuffy like he is now, fur he ain't no slouch when he keeps the budge—liquor, you know—out of himself. This last break of his'n was all along er gittin' into politics. A feller come along an' as't him to go to the primary. He went. Think from the time he got in that night that somebody set 'em up pretty lively.

"That's two weeks ago an' he's been a-keepin' it up ever since. My mother told Dutchy, the s'loon­keeper, not to sell the old man any more budge—in course she didn't say budge, she said 'toxicatin' drinks—an' he lafft at her. That's where he got left. My mother's folks is gritty; her brother, my Uncle Dave, was shot carryin' the colors over Mis­sion Ridge. Yesterday the old man—Is he a rail­road man? No, he's a cooper, an' you'd otter see what a head he's got on to his kag to-day. Well,

EZ                                        241Si

daddy went round to Dutchy's again an' got f ull­er'n a goose. When he gets full he gits wealthy an' 'II squander his last nick. I went to Dutchy's to try to run the old man into the roundhouse—I mean take him home—where he could have his brass rubbed off and give his boiler a chance to cool, for the old machine did look awful hard. He was gob? about sixty mile an hour an' I looked to see a cylin­der head fly out. That's what I told Jake, over to the I. B. & W. yards. Jake an' me's pards. I told daddy he must go home ; that he wasn't doin' the fair thing by mother, when all of a suddent he give me one right here over my left ear. You can feel —it's about as big as a' Easter egg. Ale bottle, I guess it was. I sort o' took a tumble to myself then, and didn't know for a minute or two whether I was still on the main track or off on a siding.

"When I come to, things was lively, I tell you. My mother is a little woman—don't weigh over ninety pounds—but if you'd 'a' seen her yesterday, you'd 'a' thought she weighed a ton. Ever been into Dutchy's? Know what a nice spread of glassware he has behind his bar? Know that mirror that he smears with soap pictures, birds an' things? All gone. They tried to hold mother, half a dozen of 'em did, but they couldn't do it. The old man had sneaked off somewhere—first time she'd ever fol­lered him—an' he felt ornery. She told Dutchy that she'd begged him time 'n' again not to sell liquor to father, an' then she went for the glassware. Talk about Captain Bogardus bu'stin' glass balls,'

2488

Mother didn't leave nothin'. She had my baseball hat, and she did some of the heaviest battin' ever you see. I don't think she left a piece of that mirror big enough to scrape an ax-handle. Ought to seen Dutchy ! It was better'n a cir-cu-ous ! 'Somebody hold 'er,' sez he—ha, ha! Hold her? Nobody dared lay a finger on her. Otter see the scars on that baseball club. It's the boss club, you betcher boots.

"When it was all over mother just dropped as limp as a rag, and some of the neighbor women come and took her home. She was flighty an' out of her head like, and 'stericky for three or four hours. That sort o' sobered the old man, for she was awful bad, and he was afraid he was goin' to lose her. 'How could he ever raise Ez?' said the neighbors. Ez, that's me, Ezra. Mother got the name out of the Bible. Just as if I needed any raisin', for I'm a rooster as can take care of myself. But it would 'a' bu'sted me to lose mother. An' what would become of daddy ? How could I ever raise him? Great Jemimal did you see that bite? I don't think Dutchy'll sell him any more budge very soon, do you ? Mother an' the old man, they're a-makin' it up to-day. I think this time he'll swear off for keeps, an' I don't want to stand 'round with this goose-egg on my head to make mother mad every time she looks at me an' thinks about it. I want to give the old man a chance."

THE CHAMPION CHECKER•PLAYER OF
AMERIKY

O

F course as fur as Checker-playin"s concerned, you can't jest adzactly 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 level-headed feller to dim­onstrate, don't you understand I

Checkers is a' old enough game, of 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 reputa‑
tion 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 shovelin' out at Pomp'y-i, et
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 pokeberry-juice. These is facts 'at his‑
tory herself has dug out, and of course it ain't fer
me ner you to turn our nose up at Checkers,
2459

2490 THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER

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 mysa—but I knowed a feller onc't 'at could play, and sort o' made a business of it; and that man, in my opinion, wuz a geenyus I Name wuz Wesley Cotterl—John Wesley Cotterl—just 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-cipherin' out some new move er 'nuther, and whistlin' low and solem' to hissel-like and a-payin' no attention to nobody.

And I'll tell you, Wes Cotterl win no man's fool, as sly as you keep it I He wuz a deep thinker, Wes wuz ; and of 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 around his own wood-pile 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 I—They wuzn't no man under the heavens 'at knowed more 'bout handlin'

THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER 2491

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 Cotter!, 'fore now, when a swarm of bees 'ud settle in a' orchard, —like they will sometimes, you know,—I've saw Wes Cotter! 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 Cotterll But lazyt—I think that man had railly ort to 'a' been a' Injun I 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 sort o' crooked out that mouth if 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 natchurally 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 wuz a-playin. He had his faults, o' course, and would take back moves 'casion'ly, er inch up on you of 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,

2492 THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER

and war 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 'peered to have one fixed principle, and that wuz to take plenty o' time, and never make no move 'ithout a-cipherin' 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 men ahead to your one. And then he'd jest go on with his whistlin"sef nothin' had happened, and mebby you a-jest a-rearin' and a-callin' him all the mean, outlandish, ornry names 'at you could lay tongue to.

But Wes's good nature, I reckon, wuz the thing 'at he'ped him out as much as any other p'ints the feller had. And Wes' 'ud allus win, in the long run! —I don't keer who played ag'inst him I It wuz on'y

THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER 2493

a question o' time with Wes o' waxin' it to the best of 'em. Lots o' players has tackled Wes, and right at the start 'ud mebby give him trouble,—but in the long run, now mind ye—in the long run, no mortal man, I reckon, had any business o' rubbin' knees with Wes Cotter! under no airthly checker-board in all this vale o' tears'

I mind onc't th' come along a high-toned feller from in around InTnoplus som'er's.—Wuz a law­yer, er some plessional kind o' man. Had a big yal­ler, luther-kivvered book under his arm, and a bunch o' these-'ere big envelop's and a lot o' suppeenies stickin' out o' his breast-pocket. Mighty slick­lookin' feller he wuz; wore a stove-pipe hat, sort o' set 'way back on his head—so's to show off his Giner'l Jackson forr'ed, don't you know I Well-sir, this feller struck the place, on some business er other, and then missed the hack 'at ort to 'a' tuk him out o' here sooner'n it did take him out!—And whilse he wuz a-loafin' round, sort o' lonesome—like a feller allus is in a strange place, you know—he kind o' drapped in on our crowd at the shoe-shop, ostenchably to git a boot-strop stitched on, but I knowed, the minute he set foot in the door, 'at that feller wanted cottsp'ny wuss'n cobblin'.

Well, as good luck would have it, there set Wes, as usual, with the checker-board in his lap, a-playin' all by hisse'f, and a-whistlin' so low and solem'-like and sad it :silly made the crowd seem like a relig­ious getherun' o' some kind er other, we wuz all so quiet and still-like, as the man come in.

2494 THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER

Well, the stranger stated his business, set down, tuk off his boot, and set there nussin' his foot and talkin' weather fer ten minutes, I reckon, 'fore he ever 'peared to notice Wes at all. We wuz all back­'ard, anyhow, 'bout talkin' much ; besides, we knowed, long afore he come in, all about how hot the weather wuz, and the pore chance there wuz o' rain, and all that ; and so the subject had purty well died out, when jest then the feller's eyes struck Wes and the checker-board,—and I'll never fergit the warm, salvation smile 'at flashed over him at the promisin' discovery. "What!" says he, a-grinnin' like a' angel and a-edgin' his cheer to'rds Wes, "have we a checker-board and checkers here ?"

"We hey," says I, knowin"at Wes wouldn't let go c? that whistle long enough to answer—more'n to mebby nod his head.

"And who is your best player?" says the feller, kind o' pitiful-like, with another inquirin' look at Wes.

"Him," says I, a-pokin' Wes with a peg-float. But Wes on'y spit kind o' absent-like, and went on with his whistlin'.

"Much of a player, is he?" says the feller, with a sort o' doubtful smile at Wes ag'in.

"Plays a purty good hick'ry," says I, a-pokin' Wes ag'in. "Wes," says I, "here's a gentleman 'at 'ud mebby like to take a hand with you there, and give you a few idies," says I.

"Yes," says the stranger, eager-like, a-settin' his plug-hat keerful up in the empty shelvin, and a-rub‑

THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER 2495

bin' his hands and smilin' as confident-like as old Hoyle hissel,—"Yes, indeed, I'd be glad to give the gentleman" (meanin' Wes) "a' idy er two about Checkers—ef he'd jest as lief,—'cause I reckon ef there're any one thing 'at I do know more about 'an another, it's Checkers," says he ; "and there're no game 'at delights me more—pervidin', o' course, I find a competiter 'at kin make it anyways in­terestin'."

"Got much of a rickord on Checkers?" says I.

"Well," says the feller, "I don't like to brag, but I've never be'n beat—in any legitimut contest," says he, "and I've played more'n one o' them," he says, "here and there round the country. Of course, your friend here," he went on, smilin' sociable at Wes, "he'll take it all in good part ef I should happen to lead him a little—jest as I'd do," he says, "ef it wuz possible fer him to lead me."

"Wes," says I, "has warmed the wax in the yeers of some mighty good checker-players," says I, as he squared the board around, still a-whistlin' to hisse'f-like, as the stranger tuk his place, a-smilint­like and roachin' back his hair.

"Move," says Wes.

"No," says the feller, with a polite flourish of his hand ; "the first move shall be your'n." And, by jucks! fer all he wouldn't take even the advantage of a starter, he flaxed it to Wes the fust game in less'n fifteen minutes.

"Right shore you've given me your best player ?" he says, smilin' round at the crowd, as Wes set

2496 THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER

squarin' the board fer another game and whistlin' as onconcerned-like as of nothin' had happened more'n ordinary.

"'S your move," says Wes, a-squintin' out into the game 'bout forty foot from shore, and a-whistlin' port' nigh in a whisper.

Well-sir, it 'peared-like the feller railly didn't try to play; and you could see, too, 'at Wes knowed he'd about met his match, and played accordin. He didn't make no move at all 'at he didn't give keerful thought to; whilse the feller-1 Well, as I wuz say-in', it jest 'peared-like Checkers wuz child's-play fer him! Putt in most o' the time 'long through the game a-sayin' things calkilated to kind o' bore a' ordinary man. But Wes belt hisse'f purty level, and didn't show no signs, and kep' up his whistlin', mighty well—considerin'.

"Reckon you play the fiddle, too, as well as Checkers?' says the feller, laughin', as Wes come a-whistlin' out of the little end of the second game and went on a-fixin' fer the next round.

"'S my move l" says Wes, 'thout seemin' to notice the feller's tantalizin' words whatsomever.

"'Ll 1 this time," thinks I, "Mr. Smarty from the metrolopin deestricts, you're liable to git waxed—shore" But the feller didn't 'pear to think so at all, and played right ahead as glib-like and keerless as ever—'casion'ly a-throw& in them sircastic re­marks o' his'n,—'bout bein' "slow and shore" 'bout things in gineral—"Liked to see that," he said

"Liked to see fellers do things with plenty o' delib‑

THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER 2497

erasion, and even ef a feller mustn't much of a checker-player, liked to see him die slow anyhow!—and then 'tend his own funeral," he says,—"and march in the p'session—to his own music," says he. —And jest then his remarks wuz brung to a close by Wes a-jumpin' two men, and a-lightin' square in the king-row. . . . "Crown that," says Wes, a-drop­pin' back into his old tune. And fer the rest o' that game Wes helt the feller purty level, but had to finally knock under—but by jest the clos'test kind o' shave o' winnin'.

"They ain't much use," says the feller, "o' keep-in' this thing up—'less I could manage some way er other, to git beat onc't 'n a while!"

"Move," says Wes, a-drappin' back into the same old whistle and a-settlin' there.

"'Music has charms,' as the Good Book tells us," says the feller, kind o' nervous-like, and a-roachin' his hair back as ef some sort o' p'tracted headache wuz a-settin' in.

"Never wuz 'skunked,' wuz ye ?" says Wes, kind o' suddent-like, with a fur-off look in them big white eyes o' his—and then a-whistlin' right on, 'sef he hadn't said nothin'.

"Not much!' says the feller, sort o' s'prised-like, as ef such a' idy as that bad never struck him afore. —"Never was 'skunked' mysel; but I've saw fellers in my time 'at total" says he.

But from that time on I noticed the feller 'peared to play more keerful, and railly la'nched into the game with somepin' like inter'st. Wes, he seemed to

2498 THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER

be jest a-limberin'-up-like ; and-sir, blame me I of he didn't walk the feller's log fer him that time, 'thout no 'pearent trouble at all!

"And now," says Wes, all quiet-like, a-squarin' the board fer another 'n',—"we're kind o' gittin' at things right. Move." And away went that little unconcerned whistle o' his ag'in, and Mr. Cityman jest gittin' white and sweaty too—he wuz so nerv­ous. Ner he didn't 'pear to find much to laugh at in the next game—ner the next two games nuther ! Things wuz a-gettin' mighty interestin' 'bout them times, and I guess the feller wuz ser'ous-like a-wak­in' up to the solem' fact 'at it tuk 'bout all his spare time to keep up his end o' the row, and even that state o' 'pore satisfaction wuz a-creepin' furder and furder away from him ever' new turn he undertook. Whilse Wes jest 'peared to git more deliber't' and certain ever' game; and that unendin' se'f-satisfied and comfortin' little whistle o' his never drapped a stitch, but toed out ever' game alike,—to'rds the last, and, fer the most part, disaster's to the feller 'at had started in with sich confidence and actchul promise, don't you know.

'Well-sir, the feller stuck the whole forenoon out, and then the afternoon; and then knuckled down to it 'way into the night—yes, and plum midnight!—And he buckled into the thing bright and airly nest morning! And-sir, fer two long days and nights, a-hardly a-stoppin' long enough to eat, the feller stuck it out,—and Wes a-jest a-warpin' it to him hand-over-fist, and leavin' him furder behind, ever'

THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER 2499

game I—till finally, to'rds the last, the feller got so blame-don worked up and excited-like, he jest 'peared actchully purt' nigh plum crazy and histur­ical as a woman!

It wuz a-gittin' late into the shank of the second day, and the boys hed jest lit a candle fer 'em to finish out one of the clos'test games the feller'd played Wes fer some time. But Wes win jest as cool and ca'm as ever, and still a-whistlin' consolin' to hisse'f-like, whilse the feller jest 'peared wore out and ready to drap right in his tracks any minute.

"Duns you!" he snarled out at Wes, "hain't you never goern to move?" And there set Wes, a-bal­ancin' a checker-man above the board, a-studyin' whur to set it, and in the time with that-air whistle.

"Flames and flashes!" says the feller ag'in, "will you ever stop that death-seducin' tune o' your'n long enough to move ?"—And as Wes deliber't'ly set his man down whur the feller see he'd haf to jump it and lose two men and a king, Wes wuz a-singin', low and sad-like, as ef all to hisse'f :

"0 we'll move Mat man, and leave him there.— Fer the love of B-a-r-b—bry Al-lent"

Well-sir! the feller jest jumped to his feet, upset the board, and tore out o' the shop stark-starin' crazy—blame ef he wuzn't 1—'cause some of us putt out after him and overtook him 'way beyent the 'pike-bridge, and hollered to him ;—and he shuk his fist at us and hollered back and says, says he:

2500 THE CHAMPION CHECKER-PLAYER

"Et you fellers over here," says he, "'II agree to muzzle that durn checker-player o' your'n, I'll bet fifteen hundred dollars to fifteen cents 'at I kin beat him 'leven games out of ever' dozent !—But there're no money," he says, "'at kin hire me to play him ag'in, on this aboundin' airth, on'y on them con­ditions—'cause that durn, eternal, infernal, dad-blasted whistle o' his 'ud beat the oldest man in Ameriky I"

THE JUDKINS PAPERS

FATHER AND SON

M

R. JUDKINS' boy came home yesterday with a bottle of bugs in his pocket, and as the quiet little fellow sat on the back porch in his favorite position, his legs elbowed and flattened out beneath him like a letter "W," his genial and ec­centric father came suddenly upon him.

"And what's the blame' boy up to now?" said Mr. Judkins, in an assumed tone of querulous displeas­ure, as he bent over the boy from behind and gently tweaked his ear.

"Oh, here, mister I" said the boy, without looking up; "you thist let up on that, will you!"

"What you got there, I tell you!" continued the smiling Mr. Judkins, in a still gruffer tone, relin­quishing the boy's ear and gazing down upon the fluffy towhead with more than ordinary admira­tion. "What you got there?"

"Bugs," said the boy—"you know!"

"Dead, are they?" said Mr. Judkins.

"Some of 'em's dead," said the boy, carefully running a needle through the back of a large bum­blebee. "All these uns is, you can bet I You don't

2501

2502                   THE JUDKINS PAPERS

think a feller 'ud try to string a live bumblebee, I reckon?"

"Well, no, 'Squire," said Mr. Judkins, airily, ad­dressing the boy by one of the dozen nicknames he had given him; "not a live bumblebee—a real stem-winder, of course not. But what in the name o' limpin' Lazarus are you stringin"em fer?"

"Got a live snake-feeder," said the boy, ignor­ing the parental inquiry. "See him down there in the bottom, 'ith all th'other uns on top of him. Thist watch him now, an' you kin see him pant. I kin. Yes, an' I got a beetle 'at's purt' nigh alive, too—on'y he can't pull in his other wings. See 'em?" continued the boy, with growing enthusiasm, twirling the big-mouthed bottle like a kaleidoscope. "Hate beetles! 'cause they allus act so big, an' make s'much fuss about theirselves, an' don't know noth­in' neither I Bet of I had as many wings as a beetle I wouldn't let no boy my size knock the stuffin' out o' me with no bunch o' weeds, like I done him!"

"Howd'ye know you wouldn't?" said Mr. Jud­kins, austerely, biting his nails and winking archly to himself.

"W'y, I know I wouldn't," said the boy, "'cause I'd keep up in the air where I could fly, and wouldn't come low down at all—bumpin' around 'mongst them bushes, an' buzzin' against things, and buttin' my brains out a-tryin' to git there fence cracks."

" 'Spect you'd ruther be a snake-feeder, wouldn't you, Bud?" said Mr. Judkins suggestively. "Snake‑

THE JUDKINS PAPERS                2503

feeders has got about enough wings to suit you, of you want more'n one pair, and every day's a picnic with a snake-feeder, you know. Nothin' to do but jes' loaf up and down the crick, and roost on reeds and cat-tails, er fool around a feller's fish-line and light on the cork and bob up and down with it till she goes clean under, don't you know?"

"Don't want to be no snake-feeder, neither," said the boy, "'cause they Bits gobbled up, first thing they know, by these 'ere big green bullfrogs ut they can't ever tell from the skum till they've lit right in their mouth—and then they're goners! No, sir ;" continued the boy, drawing an extra qui­nine bottle from another pocket, and holding it up admiringly before his father's eyes: "There's the feller in there 'at I'd ruther be than have a pony!"

"W'y, it's a nasty p'izen spider I" exclaimed Mr. Judkins, pushing back the bottle with affected ab­horrence, "and he's alive, too 1"

"You bet he's alive!" said the boy, "and you kin bet he'll never come to no harm while I own him!" and as the little fellow spoke his face glowed with positive affection, and the twinkle of his eyes, as he continued, seemed wonderfully like his father's own. "Tell you, I like spiders! Spiders is awful fat—all but their head—and that's level, you kin bet Flies hain't got no business with a spider. Ef a spider ever reaches fer a fly, he's his meat I The spider, he likes to loaf an' lay around in the shade an' wait fer flies an' bugs an' things to come a-fool‑

2504                     THE RIDKINS PAPERS

in' round his place. He lays back in the hole in the corner of his web, an' waits till somepin' lights on it an' nen when he hears 'em buzzin', he thist crawls out an' fixes 'em so's they can't buzz, an' he's got the truck to do it with ! I bet ef you'd unwind all the web-stuff out of thist one little spider not big­ger'n a pill, it 'ud be long enough fer a kite-string

Onc't they was one in our wood-house, an' a tater­bug got stuck in his web, and the spider worked pure nigh two days 'fore he got him so's he couldn't move. Nen he couldn't eat him neither—'cause they's shells on 'em, you know, an' the spider didn't know how to hull him. Ever' time I'd go there the spider, he'd be a-wrappin' more stuff around th' ole bug, an' stoopin' down like he was a-whisperin' to him. An' one day I went in again, an' he was a-hangin', alas, and cold in death! An' I poked him with a splinter and his web broked off—'spect he'd used it all up on the wicked bug—and it killed him ; an' I buried him in a' ink bottle, an' mashed the old bug 'ith a chip I"

"Yes," said Judkins, in a horrified tone, turning away to conceal the real zest and enjoyment his face must have betrayed ; "yes, and some day you'll come home p'izened, er somepin'! And I want to say right here, my young man, ef ever you do, and it don't kill you, I'll lint you within an inch of your life I" And as the eccentric Mr. Judkins whirled around the corner of the porch he heard the boy murmur in his low, absent-minded way, "Yes, you will I"

THE JUDICINS PAPERS              2505

MR. JUDKINS' REMARKS

Judkins stopped us in front of the post-office yesterday to say that that boy of his was "the blamedest boy outside o' the annals o' history I" "Talk about this boy-naturalist out here at Indian­apolis," says Judkins,—"why, he ain't nowhere to my boy I The little cuss don't do nothin' either only set around and look sleepy, and den him, he gits off more dry things than you could print in your paper. Of late he's been a-displayin' a sort o' weakness for Nature, don't you know ; and he's allus got a bottle o' bugs in his pocket. He come home yesterday evenin' with a blame' mud-turtle as big as an un­abridged dictionary, and turned him over in the back yard and commenced biffin' away at him with a hammer and a cold-chisel. `W'y, you're a-killin' the turtle,' says I. 'Kill nothin' says he, 'I'm thist a-takin' the lid off so's I can see his clock works.' Hoomh !" says Judkins : "He's a good one!—only," he added, "I wouldn't have the boy think so for the world l"

JUDKINS' BOY ON THE MUD-TURTLE

The mud-turtle is not a beast of pray, but he dearly loves catfish bait. If a mud-turtle gits your big toe in his mouth he will hang on till it thunders. Then he will spit it out like he was disgusted. The mud-turtle can swim and keep his chin out of water

ef he wants to, but he don't care ef he does sink. a.—Is

2505                    THE JUDKINS PAPERS

The turtle can stay under water until his next birth­day, and never crack a smile. He can breathe like a grown person, but he don't haf-to, only when he is on dry land, and then I guess he jist does it to be soshibul. Always when you see bubbles a-comin' up in the swimmin' hole, you can bet your galluses they's a mud-turtle a-layin' down there, studyin' up some cheap way to get his dinner. Mud-turtles never dies, only when they make soup out of 'em. They is seven kinds of meat in the turtle, but I'd ruther eat jist plain burnt liver.

ON FROGS

Frogs is the people's friend, but they can't fly. Onc't they was tadpoles about as big as lickerish drops, and after a while legs growed on 'em. Oh, let us love the frog—he looks so sorry. Frogs can swim better'n boys, and they don't haf to hold their nose when they dive, neither. Onc't I had a pet frog; and the cars run over him. It jist squashed him. Bet he never knowed what hurt him. Onc't they was a rich lady swallered one—when he was little, you know ; and he vowed up in her, and it didn't kill him at all. And you could hear him holler in her bosom. It was a tree-toad ; and so every time he'd go p-r-r-r-r- w'y, then the grand lady she'd know it was going to rain, and make her little boy run out and put the tub under the spout. Wasn't that a b'utiful frog?

THE JUDKINS PAPERS

ON PIRUTS

Piruts is reckless to a fault. They ain't afeard of nobody ner nothin'. Ef ever you insult a pirut onc't, he'll follow you to the grave but what he will revenge his wrongs. Piruts all look like pictures of "Buffalo Bill"--only they don't shave off the whisk­ers that sticks out over the collar of their low-necked shirt. Every day is a picknick for the piruts of the high seas. They eat gunpowder and drink blood to make 'em savage, and then they kill people all day, and set up all night and tell ghost stories and sing songs such as mortal ear would quail to listen to. Piruts never comes on shore only when they run out of tobacker ; and then it's a cold day if they don't land at midnight, and disguize their-selves and slip up in town like a sleuth boon', so's the Grand Jury can't get on to 'em. They don't care fer the police any more than us people who dwells right in their midst. Piruts makes big wages and spends it like a king. "Come easy, go easy," is the fatal watchword of them whose deeds is Deth. Onc't they was a pirut turned out of the house and home by his cruel parents when he was but a kid, and so he always went by that name. He was thrust adrift without a nickel, and sailed fer distant shores to hide his shame fer those he loved. In the dead of night he stol'd a new suit of the captain's clothes. And when he growed up big enough to fit 'em, he gaily dressed hisself and went up and paced the quarter-deck in deep thought. He had not forgot how the captain onc't had lashed him to the jib‑

2508                    THE JUDKINS PAPERS

boom-poop and whipped him. That stung his proud spirit even then ; and so the first thing he done was to slip up behind the cruel officer and push him overboard. Then the ship was his fer better er fer worse. And so he took command, and hung high upon the beetling mast the pirut flag. Then he took the bible his old mother give him, and tied a darnic round it and sunk it in the sand with a mock­ing laugh. Then it was that he was ready fer the pirut's wild seafaring life. He worked the business fer all they was in it fer many years, but was run in at last And, standing on the gallus-tree, he sung a song which was all wrote off by hisself. And then they knocked the trap on him. And thus the brave man died and never made a kick. In life he was always careful with his means, and saved up vast welch, which he dug holes and burled, and died with the secret locked in his bosom to this day.

ON NACKMENS

Hackmens has the softest thing in the bizness. They hain't got nothing to do but look hump-shouldered and chaw tobacker and wait. Hackmens all look like detectives, and keeps still, and never even spits when you walk past 'em. And they're allus cold. A hackman that stands high in the p'fession can wear a' overcoat in dog-days and then look chilly and like his folks was all dead but the old man, and he wuz a drunkard. Ef a hackman would only be a blind fiddler he'd take in more

THE JUDKINS PAPERS                 25®

money than a fair-ground. Hackmens never gives nothin' away. You can trust a hackman when you can't trust your own mother. Some people thinks when they hire a hack to take 'em some place that the hackman has got some grudge ag'in"em—but he hain't—he's allus that way. He loves you but he knows his place, and smothers his real feelings. In life's giddy scenes hackmens all wears a mask ; but down deep in their heart you can bet they are yourn till deth. Some hackmens look like they was stuck up, but they ain't—it's only 'cause they got on so much clothes. Onc't a hackman wuz stabbed by a friend of his in the same bizness, and when the doctors was seein' how bad he wuz karved up, they found he had on five shuns. They said that wuz all that saved his life. They said of he'd only had on four shuns, he'd 'a' been a ded man. And the hack­man hisse'f, when he got well, used to brag it wuz the closest call he ever had, and laid for the other hackman, and hit him with a car couplin' and killed him, and come mighty nigh goin' to the penitenchary fer it. Influenshal friends wuz all that saved him that time. No five shuns would 'a' done it. The mayor said that when he let him off, and brought down the house, and made hisse'f a strong man fer another term. Some mayors is purty slick, but a humble hackman may sometimes turn out to be jist as smooth. The only thing why a hackman don't show up no better is 'cause he loses so much sleep. That's why he allus looks like he had the headache, and didn't care if he did. Onc't a hackman wuz

2510                   THE JUDKJNS PAPERS

waitin' in front of a hotel one morning and wuz sort o' dozin' like, and fell off his seat. And they run and picked him up, and he wuz unconshus, and they worked with him till 'way long in the afternoon 'fore they found out he wuz just asleep; and he cussed fearful cause they waked him up, and won­dered why people couldn't never tend to their own bizness like he did.

ON DUDES

Everybody is allus a-givin' it to Dudes. News­papers makes fun of 'em, and artists makes pictures of 'em ; and the only ones in the wide world that's stuck on Dudes is me and the Dudes theirse'f, and we love and cherish 'em with all a parent's fond regards. And nobody knows much about Dudes neither, 'cause they hain't been broke out long enough yet to tell jist what the disease is. Some say k's softinning of the brains, and others claim it can't be that, on the groun's thay hain't got material for the softinning to work on, &c., &c., till even "Sientests is puzzled," as the good book says. And if I wuz a-going to say what ails Dudes I'd have to give it up, er pemounce it a' aggervated case of Tyfoid blues, which is my 'onnest convictions. That's what makes me kind o' stand in with 'em—same as if they wuz the under-dog. I am willing to alcnolege that Dudes has their weakness, but so has ever'thing. Even Oscar Wild, if put to the test ;— and I allus feel sorry for George Washington 'cause he died 'fore he got to see Oscar Wild. And then

THE JUDKINS PAPERS         2511

another reason why you oughten't to jump on to Dudes is, they don't know what's the matter with 'em any more than us folks in whom they come in daily contack. Dudes all walks and looks in the face like they wuz on their way to fill an engagement with a revolvin' lady wax-figger in some milliner-winder, and had fergot the number of her place of bizness. Some folks is mean enough to bitterly a'sert that Dudes is strained in their manner and fools from choice ; but they ain't. It's a gift—Dudes is Geenuses—that's what Dudes is!

ON RED HAIR

Onc't a pore boy wuz red-hedded, and got mad at the other boys when they'd throw it up to him.