Part 1

THE POEMS AND PROSE SKETCHES OF JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

ARMAZINDY

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS NEW YORK 1917

Copyright, 1894, 1898, by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

⁂ _The publication of this volume in the Homestead Edition of the works of James Whitcomb Riley is made possible by the courtesy of The Bowen-Merrill Company, of Indianapolis, the original publishers of Mr. Riley’s books._

TO HENRY EITEL

CONTENTS

PAGE

ARMAZINDY

ARMAZINDY 3

THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED 15

NATURAL PERVERSITIES 17

THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM 20

WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 22

THE BLIND GIRL 25

WE DEFER THINGS 28

THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY 29

FOR THIS CHRISTMAS 31

A POOR MAN’S WEALTH 32

THE LITTLE RED RIBBON 34

“HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?” 35

A GOOD-BYE 37

WHEN MAIMIE MARRIED 38

“THIS DEAR CHILD-HEARTED WOMAN THAT IS DEAD” 40

TO A POET-CRITIC 41

AN OLD-TIMER 42

THE SILENT VICTORS 44

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE 51

THREE SINGING FRIENDS 56

A NOON LULL 59

A WINDY DAY 60

MY HENRY 62

THE SONG I NEVER SING 64

TO EDGAR WILSON NYE 67

LITTLE DAVID 68

OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE 69

RABBIT IN THE CROSS-TIES 71

SERENADE—TO NORA 72

THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE 74

WHAT REDRESS 76

DREAMER, SAY 77

WHEN LIDE MARRIED _HIM_ 79

MY BRIDE THAT IS TO BE 81

“RINGWORM FRANK” 85

AN EMPTY GLOVE 87

OUR OWN 89

MAKE-BELIEVE AND CHILD-PLAY

_The Frog_ 93

“TWIGGS AND TUDENS” 95

DOLORES 113

WHEN I DO MOCK 114

MY MARY 115

_Eros_ 118

ORLIE WILDE 119

LEONAINIE 128

TO A JILTED SWAIN 130

THE VOICES 131

_A Barefoot Boy_ 134

THE YOUTHFUL PATRIOT 135

PONCHUS PILUT 136

A TWINTORETTE 139

SLUMBER-SONG 140

THE CIRCUS PARADE 141

FOLKS AT LONESOMEVILLE 143

THE THREE JOLLY HUNTERS 144

THE LITTLE DOG-WOGGY 146

CHARMS 148

A FEW OF THE BIRD-FAMILY 150

THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 151

THE TRESTLE AND THE BUCK-SAW 153

THE KING OF OO-RINKTUM-JING 154

THE TOY PENNY-DOG 156

JARGON-JINGLE 157

THE GREAT EXPLORER 158

THE SCHOOL-BOY’S FAVORITE 159

ALBUMANIA 162

THE LITTLE MOCK-MAN 165

SUMMER-TIME AND WINTER-TIME 168

HOME-MADE RIDDLES 169

THE LOVELY CHILD 171

THE YELLOWBIRD 172

ENVOY 173

ARMAZINDY

ARMAZINDY

Armazindy;—fambily name _Ballenger_,—you’ll find the same, As her Daddy answered it, In the old War-rickords yit,— And, like him, she’s airnt the good Will o’ all the neighborhood.— Name ain’t down in _History_,— But, i jucks! it _ort_ to be! Folks is got respec’ fer _her_— Armazindy Ballenger!— ’Specially the ones ’at knows Fac’s o’ how her story goes From the start:—Her father blowed Up—eternally furloughed— When the old “Sultana” bu’st, And sich men wuz needed wusst.— Armazindy, ’bout fourteen- Year-old then—and thin and lean As a killdee,—but—_my la!_— Blamedest nerve you ever saw! The girl’s mother’d _allus_ be’n Sickly—wuz consumpted when Word came ’bout her husband.—So Folks perdicted _she’d_ soon go— (Kind o’ grief _I_ understand, Losin’ _my_ companion,—and Still a widower—and still Hinted at, like neighbers will!) So, app’inted, as folks said, Ballenger a-bein’ dead, Widder, ’peared-like, gradjully, Jes grieved after him tel _she_ Died, nex’ Aprile wuz a year,— And in Armazindy’s keer Leavin’ the two twins, as well As her pore old miz’able Old-maid aunty ’at had be’n Struck with palsy, and wuz then Jes a he’pless charge on _her_— _Armazindy Ballenger_.

Jevver watch a primrose ’bout Minute ’fore it blossoms out— Kindo’ loosen-like, and blow Up its muscles, don’t you know, And, all suddent, bu’st and bloom Out life-size?—Well, I persume ’At’s the only measure I _Kin_ size Armazindy by!— Jes a _child_, _one_ minute,—nex’, _Woman-grown_, in all respec’s And intents and purposuz— ’At’s what Armazindy wuz!

Jes a _child_, I tell ye! Yit She made things git up and git Round that little farm o’ hern!— Shouldered all the whole concern;— Feed the stock, and milk the cows— Run the _farm_ and run the _house_!— _Only_ thing she didn’t do Wuz to plough and harvest too— But the house and childern took Lots o’ keer—and had to look After her old fittified Grandaunt.—Lord! ye could’a’ cried, Seein’ Armazindy smile, ’Peared-like, sweeter all the while! And I’ve heerd her laugh and say:— “Jes afore Pap marched away, He says, ‘I depend on _you_, Armazindy, come what may— You must be a Soldier, too!’”

Neighbers, from the fust, ’ud come— And she’d _let_ ’em help her _some_,— “Thanky, ma’am!” and “Thanky, sir!” But no charity fer _her_!— “_She_ could raise the means to pay Fer her farm-hands ever’ day Sich wuz needed!”—And she _could_— In cash-money jes as good As farm-produc’s ever brung Their perducer, _old_ er young! So folks humored her and smiled, And at last wuz rickonciled Fer to let her have her own Way about it.—But a-goin’ Past to town, they’d stop and see “Armazindy’s fambily,” As they’d allus laugh and say, And look sorry right away, Thinkin’ of her Pap, and how He’d indorse his “Soldier” now! ’Course _she_ couldn’t never be Much in _young-folks’_ company— Plenty of _in_-vites to go, But das’t leave the house, you know— ’Less’n _Sund’ys_ sometimes, when Some old _Granny_’d come and ’ten’ Things, while Armazindy _has_ Got away fer Church er “Class.” Most the youngsters _liked_ her—and ’Twuzn’t hard to understand,— Fer, by time she wuz sixteen, Purtier girl you never seen— ’Ceptin’ she lacked schoolin’, ner Couldn’t rag out stylisher— Like some _neighber_-girls, ner thumb On their blame’ melodium, Whilse their pore old mothers sloshed Round the old back-porch and washed Their clothes fer ’em—rubbed and scrubbed Fer girls’d ort to jes be’n clubbed!

—And jes sich a girl wuz Jule Reddinhouse.—_She’d_ be’n to school At _New Thessaly_, i gum!— Fool before, but that he’pped _some_— ’Stablished-like more confidence ’At she _never_ had no sense. But she wuz a cunnin’, sly, Meek and lowly sort o’ lie, ’At men-folks like me and you B’lieves jes ’cause we ortn’t to.— Jes as purty as a snake, And as _pizen_—mercy sake! Well, about them times it wuz, Young Sol Stephens th’ashed fer us; And we sent him over to Armazindy’s place to do _Her_ work fer her.—And-sir! Well— Mighty little else to tell,— Sol he fell in love with her— Armazindy Ballenger!

Bless ye!—’Ll, of all the love ’At I’ve ever yit knowed of, That-air case o’ theirn beat all! W’y, she _worshipped_ him!—And Sol, ’Peared-like, could ’a’ kissed the sod (Sayin’ is) where that girl trod! Went to town, she did, and bought Lot o’ things ’at neighbers thought Mighty strange fer _her_ to buy,— Raal chintz dress-goods—and ’way high!— Cut long in the skyrt,—also Gaiter-pair o’ shoes, you know; And lace collar;—yes, and fine Stylish hat, with ivy-vine And red ribbons, and these-’ere Artificial flowers and queer Little beads and spangles, and Oysturch-feathers round the band! Wore ’em, Sund’ys, fer a while— Kindo’ went to Church in style, Sol and Armazindy!—Tel It was noised round purty well They wuz _promised_.—And they wuz— Sich news travels—well it does!— Pity ’at _that_ did!—Fer jes That-air fac’ and nothin’ less Must ’a’ putt it in the mind O’ Jule Reddinhouse to find Out some dratted way to hatch Out _some_ plan to break the match— ’Cause she _done_ it!—_How?_ they’s none Knows adzac’ly _what_ she done; _Some_ claims she writ letters to Sol’s folks, up nigh Pleasant View Somers—and described, you see, “Armazindy’s fambily”— Hintin’ “ef Sol married _her_, He’d jes be pervidin’ fer Them-air twins o’ hern, and old Palsied aunt ’at couldn’t hold Spoon to mouth, and layin’ near Bedrid’ on to eighteen year’, And still likely, ’pearantly, To live out the century!” Well—whatever plan Jule laid Out to reach the p’int she made, It wuz _desper’t_.—And she won, Finully, by marryun Sol herse’f—_e-lopin’_, too, With him, like she _had_ to do,— ’Cause her folks ’ud allus swore “Jule should never marry pore!”

This-here part the story I Allus haf to hurry by,— Way ’at Armazindy jes Drapped back in her linsey dress, And grabbed holt her loom, and shet Her jaws square.—And ef she fret Any ’bout it—never ’peared Sign ’at _neighbers_ seed er heerd;— Most folks liked her all the more— I know _I_ did—certain-shore!— (’Course _I’d_ knowed her _Pap_, and what _Stock_ she come of.—Yes, and thought, And think _yit_, no man on earth ’S worth as much as that girl’s worth!)

As fer Jule and Sol, they had Their sheer!—less o’ good than bad!— Her folks let her go.—They said, “Spite o’ them she’d made her bed And must sleep in it!”—But she, ’Peared-like, didn’t sleep so free As she ust to—ner so _late_, Ner so _fine_, I’m here to state!— Sol wuz pore, of course, and she Wuzn’t ust to poverty— Ner she didn’t ’pear to jes ’Filiate with lonesomeness,— ’Cause Sol _he_ wuz off and out With his th’asher nigh about Half the time; er, season done, He’d be off mi-anderun Round the country, here and there, Swoppin’ hosses. Well, that-air Kind o’ livin’ didn’t suit Jule a bit!—and then, to boot, _She_ had now the keer o’ two Her own childern—and to do Her own work and cookin’—yes, And sometimes fer _hands_, I guess, Well as fambily of her own.— Cut her pride clean to the bone! So how _could_ the whole thing end?— She set down, one night, and penned A short note, like—’at she sewed On the childern’s blanket—blowed Out the candle—pulled the door To close after her—and, shore- Footed as a cat is, clumb In a rigg there and left home, With a man a-drivin’ who “Loved her ever fond and true,” As her note went on to say, When Sol read the thing next day.

Raally didn’t ’pear to be Extry waste o’ sympathy Over Sol—pore feller!—Yit, Sake o’ them-air little bit O’ two _orphants_—as you might Call ’em _then_, by law and right,— Sol’s old friends wuz sorry, and Tried to hold him out their hand Same as allus: But he’d flinch— Tel, jes ’peared-like, inch by inch, He let _all_ holts go; and so Took to drinkin’, don’t you know,— Tel, to make a long tale short, He wuz fuller than he ort To ’a’ be’n, at work one day ’Bout his th’asher, and give way, Kindo’-like, and fell and ketched In the beltin’. ... Rid and fetched Armazindy to him.—He Begged me to.—But time ’at she Reached his side, he smiled and _tried_ To speak.—Couldn’t. So he died.... Hands all turned and left her there And went somers else—_some_where. Last, she called us back—in clear Voice as man’ll ever hear— Clear and stiddy, ’peared to me, As her old Pap’s ust to be.— Give us orders what to do ’Bout the body—he’pped us, too. So it wuz, Sol Stephens passed In Armazindy’s hands at last. More’n that, she claimed ’at she Had consent from him to be Mother to his childern—now ’Thout no parents anyhow.

_Yes-sir!_ and she’s _got_ ’em, too,— Folks saw nothin’ else ’ud do— So they let her have _her way_— Like she’s doin’ yit to-day! Years now, I’ve be’n coaxin’ her— Armazindy Ballenger— To in-large her fambily Jes _one_ more by takin’ _me_— Which I’m feared she never will, Though I’m ’lectioneerin’ still.

THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED

O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy! What canopied king might not covet the joy? The glory and peace of that slumber of mine, Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine: The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light, But daintily drawn from its hiding at night. O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head, Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed!

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw The stars through the window, and listened with awe To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept: Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren, And the katydid listlessly chirrup again, Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle-bed.

O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed! With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread; Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above, Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love; The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep With the old fairy stories my memories keep Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o’er the head Once bowed o’er my own in the old trundle-bed.

NATURAL PERVERSITIES

I am not prone to moralize In scientific doubt On certain facts that Nature tries To puzzle us about,— For I am no philosopher Of wise elucidation, But speak of things as they occur, From simple observation.

I notice _little_ things—to wit:— I never missed a train Because I didn’t _run_ for it; I never knew it rain That my umbrella wasn’t lent,— Or, when in my possession, The sun but wore, to all intent, A jocular expression.

I never knew a creditor To dun me for a debt But I was “cramped” or “bu’sted”; or I never knew one yet, When I had plenty in my purse, To make the least invasion,— As I, accordingly perverse, Have courted no occasion.

Nor do I claim to comprehend What Nature has in view In giving us the very friend To trust we oughtn’t to.— But so it is: The trusty gun Disastrously exploded Is always sure to be the one We didn’t think was loaded.

Our moaning is another’s mirth,— And what is worse by half, We say the funniest thing on earth And never raise a laugh: ’Mid friends that love us overwell, And sparkling jests and liquor, Our hearts somehow are liable To melt in tears the quicker.

We reach the wrong when most we seek The right; in like effect, We stay the strong and not the weak— Do most when we neglect.— Neglected genius—truth be said— As wild and quick as tinder, The more you seek to help ahead The more you seem to hinder.

I’ve known the least the greatest, too— And, on the selfsame plan, The biggest fool I ever knew Was quite a little man: We find we ought, and then we won’t— We prove a thing, then doubt it,— Know _everything_ but when we don’t Know _anything_ about it.

THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM

He puts the poem by, to say His eyes are not themselves to-day!

A sudden glamour o’er his sight— A something vague, indefinite—

An oft-recurring blur that blinds The printed meaning of the lines,

And leaves the mind all dusk and dim In swimming darkness—strange to him!

It is not childishness, I guess,— Yet something of the tenderness

That used to wet his lashes when A boy seems troubling him again;—

The old emotion, sweet and wild, That drove him truant when a child,

That he might hide the tears that fell Above the lesson—“Little Nell.”

And so it is he puts aside The poem he has vainly tried

To follow; and, as one who sighs In failure, through a poor disguise

Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say His eyes are not themselves to-day.

WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS

My dear old friends—It jes beats all, The way you write a letter So’s ever’ _last_ line beats the _first_, And ever’ _next_-un’s better!— W’y, ever’ fool-thing you putt down You make so inte_rest_in’, A feller, readin’ of ’em all, Can’t tell which is the _best_-un.

It’s all so comfortin’ and good, ’Pears-like I almost _hear_ ye And git more sociabler, you know, And hitch my cheer up near ye And jes smile on ye like the sun Acrosst the whole per-rairies In Aprile when the thaw’s begun And country couples marries.

It’s all so good-old-fashioned like To _talk_ jes like we’re _thinkin’_, Without no hidin’ back o’ fans And giggle-un and winkin’, Ner sizin’ how each other’s dressed— Like some is allus doin’,— “_Is_ Marthy Ellen’s basque be’n _turned_ Er shore-enough a new-un!”—

Er “ef Steve’s city-friend hain’t jes ‘A _lee_tle kindo’-sorto’”— Er “wears them-air blame’ eye-glasses Jes ’cause he hadn’t ort to?”— And so straight on, _dad-libitum_, Tel all of us feels, _some_way, Jes like our “comp’ny” wuz the best When we git up to come ’way!

That’s why I like _old_ friends like _you_,— Jes ’cause you’re so _abidin’_.— Ef I wuz built to live “_fer keeps_,” My principul residin’ Would be amongst the folks ’at kep’ Me allus _thinkin’_ of ’em, And sorto’ eechin’ all the time To tell ’em how I love ’em.—

Sich folks, you know, I jes love so I wouldn’t live without ’em, Er couldn’t even drap asleep But what I _dreamp’_ about ’em,— And ef we minded God, I guess We’d _all_ love one another Jes like one famb’ly,—me and Pap And Madaline and Mother.

THE BLIND GIRL

If I might see his face to-day!— He is so happy now!—To hear His laugh is like a roundelay— So ringing-sweet and clear! His step—I heard it long before He bounded through the open door To tell his marriage.—Ah! so kind— So good he is!—And I—so blind!

But thus he always came to me— Me, first of all, he used to bring His sorrow to—his ecstasy— His hopes and everything; And if I joyed with him or wept, It was not long _the music_ slept,— And if he sung, or if I played— Or both,—we were the braver made.

I grew to know and understand His every word at every call,— The gate-latch hinted, and his hand In mine confessed it all: He need not speak one word to me— He need not sigh—I need not see,— But just the one touch of his palm, And I would answer—song or psalm.

He wanted recognition—name— He hungered so for higher things,— The altitudes of power and fame, And all that fortune brings: Till, with his great heart fevered thus, And aching as impetuous, I almost wished sometimes that _he_ Were blind and patient made, like me.

But he has won!—I knew he would.— Once in the mighty Eastern mart, I knew his music only could Be sung in every heart! And when he proudly sent me this From out the great metropolis, I bent above the graven score And, weeping, kissed it o’er and o’er.—

And yet not blither sing the birds Than this glad melody,—the tune As sweetly wedded with the words As flowers with middle-June; Had he not _told_ me, I had known It was composed of love alone— His love for _her_.—And she can see His happy face eternally!—

While _I_—O God, forgive, I pray!— Forgive me that I did so long To look upon his face to-day!— I know the wish was wrong.— Yea, I am thankful that my sight Is shielded safe from such delight:— I can pray better, with this blur Of blindness—both for him and her.

WE DEFER THINGS

We say and we say and we say, We promise, engage and declare, Till a year from to-morrow is yesterday, And yesterday is—Where?

THE MUSKINGUM VALLEY

The Muskingum Valley!—How longin’ the gaze A feller throws back on its long summer days, When the smiles of its blossoms and _my_ smiles wuz one- And-the-same, from the rise to the set o’ the sun: Wher’ the hills sloped as soft as the dawn down to noon, And the river run by like an old fiddle-tune, And the hours glided past as the bubbles ’ud glide, All so loaferin’-like, ’long the path o’ the tide.

In the Muskingum Valley—it ’peared-like the skies Looked lovin’ on me as my own mother’s eyes, While the laughin’-sad song of the stream seemed to be Like a lullaby angels was wastin’ on me— Tel, swimmin’ the air, like the gossamer’s thread, ’Twixt the blue underneath and the blue overhead, My thoughts went astray in that so-to-speak realm Wher’ Sleep bared her breast as a piller fer them.

In the Muskingum Valley, though far, far away, I know that the winter is bleak there to-day— No bloom ner perfume on the brambles er trees— Wher’ the buds ust to bloom, now the icicles freeze.— That the grass is all hid ’long the side of the road Wher’ the deep snow has drifted and shifted and blowed— And I feel in my life the same changes is there,— The frost in my heart, and the snow in my hair.

But, Muskingum Valley! my memory sees Not the white on the ground, but the green in the trees— Not the froze’-over gorge, but the current, as clear And warm as the drop that has jes trickled here; Not the choked-up ravine, and the hills topped with snow, But the grass and the blossoms I knowed long ago When my little bare feet wundered down wher’ the stream In the Muskingum Valley flowed on like a dream.

FOR THIS CHRISTMAS

Ye old-time stave that pealeth out To Christmas revellers all, At tavern-tap and wassail-bout, And in ye banquet-hall.— Whiles ye old burden rings again, Add yet ye verse, as due: “_God bless you, merry gentlemen_”— _And gentlewomen, too!_

A POOR MAN’S WEALTH

A poor man? Yes, I must confess— No wealth of gold do I possess; No pastures fine, with grazing kine, Nor fields of waving grain are mine; No foot of fat or fallow land Where rightfully my feet may stand The while I claim it as my own— By deed and title, mine alone.

Ah, poor indeed! perhaps you say— But spare me your compassion, pray!— When I ride not—with you—I walk In Nature’s company, and talk With one who will not slight or slur The child forever dear to her— And one who answers back, be sure, With smile for smile, though I am poor.