The Wit and Humor of America Volume I Part 19

The Squire was puzzled. He had given out all the hard words in the book.

He again pulled the top of his head forward. Then he wiped his spectacles and put them on. Then out of the depths of his pocket he fished up a list of words just coming into use in those days--words not in the spelling-book. He regarded the paper attentively with his blue right eye. His black left eye meanwhile fixed itself in such a stare on Mirandy Means that she shuddered and hid her eyes in her red silk handkerchief.

"Daguerreotype," sniffed the Squire. It was Ralph's turn.

"D-a-u, dau--"

"Next."

And Hannah spelled it right.

Such a buzz followed that Betsey Short's giggle could not be heard, but Shocky shouted: "Hanner beat! my Hanner spelled down the master!" And Ralph went over and congratulated her.

And Dr. Small sat perfectly still in the corner.

And then the Squire called them to order, and said: "As our friend Hanner Thomson is the only one left on her side, she will have to spell against nearly all on t'other side. I shall therefore take the liberty of procrastinating the completion of this interesting and exacting contest until to-morrow evening. I hope our friend Hanner may again carry off the cypress crown of glory. There is nothing better for us than healthful and kindly simulation."

Dr. Small, who knew the road to practice, escorted Mirandy, and Bud went home with somebody else. The others of the Means family hurried on, while Hannah, the champion, stayed behind a minute to speak to Shocky.

Perhaps it was because Ralph saw that Hannah must go alone that he suddenly remembered having left something which was of no consequence, and resolved to go round by Mr. Means's and get it.

MYOPIA

BY WALLACE RICE

As down the street he took his stroll, He cursed, for all he is a saint.

He saw a sign atop a pole, As down the street he took a stroll, And climbed it up (near-sighted soul), So he could read--and read "FRESH PAINT," ...

As down the street he took a stroll, He cursed, for all he is a saint.

ANATOLE DUBOIS AT DE HORSE SHOW

BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY

My vife an' me ve read so moch In papier here of late, About Chicago Horse Show, ve Remember day an' date.

Ve mak' it op togedder dat Ve go an' see dat show, Dere's som't'ing dere ve fin' it out Maybe ve vant to know.

Ve leave de leddle farm avile, Dat's near to Bourbonnais; Ve're soon op to Chicago town For spen' de night an' day; I nevere lak' dat busy place, It's mos' too swif for me,-- Ve vaste no tam', but gat to place Dat ve is com' for see.

Ve pay de price for tak' us in, Dey geeve me _deux_ ticquette; Charlotte an' me ve com' for see De Horse Show now, you bet.

Ve soon gat in it veree moch, "De push," I t'ink you call, To inside on de beeg building, Ve're going to see it all.

De Coliseum is de place, Dey mak' de Horse Show dere, Five tam's so beeg dan any barn At Bourbonnais, by gar!

I'm look aroun' for place dey haf'

For dem to pitch de hay.

"I guess it's 'out of sight,' I t'ink,"

Dey's von man to me say.

An' den ve valk aroun' an' 'roun'

Som' horses for to see; Dere's pretty vomans, lots of dem, But, for de life of me, I can not see de trotter nag, Or vat's called t'oroughbred, I vonder if ve mak' mistake, Gat in wrong place instead.

But Charlotte is not disappoint', Her eyes dey s.h.i.+ne so bright, It's ven she sees dem vimmens folks, Dey dance vit moch delight; I den vos tak' a look myself On ladies vit fin' dra.s.s, Dere's nodding else in dat whol' place Dat is so interes'.

I say, "Charlotte," say I to her, "Dat ladee in box seat-- Across de vay vos von beeg swell, Her beauty's hard to beat; De von dat's gat fon_ee_ eyegla.s.s Opon a leddle stek, I'm t'ink she is most' fin' loo_kin_'

Wen she bow an' spe'k.

"It's pretty dra.s.s 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, W'ich we are com' for see; An' den I op an' tol' her dere Dat I had com' to be Expert on informatione, Read papier, I fin' out Vat all is in de Horse's Show, An' vat's it all about.

I point to ladee in nex' box, She's feex op mighty vell, I vish I could haf' vords enough Vat she had on to tell; De firs' part it vas nodding moch, From cloth it vas quite free, Lak' fleur-de-lis at Easter tam', Mos' beautiful to see.

An' den dere is commence a line Of fluffy cream souffle, My vife it mak' her very diz', She's not a vord to say.

An' den com' yard of _crepe 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 Dat Horse Show vas lak' dese!

A Horse Show dere vidout no horse, I t'ink dat's strange beez_nesse_.

But I suppose affer de man 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, You fin' out som't'ing new; An' now I haf' som' vords to tell, Som' good it might do you; It's mighty fonny, de advise I'm geeve to you, of course, But never go to Horses Show Expecting to see horse.

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 level-headed feller to _dim_onstrate, 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 _Pom_p'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 pokeberry-juice. 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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'f-like and a-payin' no attention to n.o.body.

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 s.h.i.+rt-sleeves and bend down a' apple tree limb 'at wuz jest kivvered with the pesky things, and sc.r.a.pe '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.