Chapter 2

"All this time I had been writing whenever there was any strength left in me. I could not resist the inclination to write. It was what I most enjoyed doing. And so I wrote, laboriously ever, more often using the rubber end of the pencil than the point.

"In my readings I had an opportunity to study and find out for myself what the public wants, and afterward I would endeavor to use the knowledge gained in my writing. The public desires nothing but what is absolutely natural, and so perfectly natural as to be fairly artless. It can not tolerate affectation, and it takes little interest in the classical production. It demands simple sentiments that come direct from the heart. While on the lecture platform I watched the effect that my readings had on the audience very closely and whenever anybody left the hall I knew that my recitation was at fault and tried to find out why. Once a man and his wife made an exit while I was giving The Happy Little Cripple--a recitation I had prepared with particular enthusiasm and satisfaction. It fulfilled, as few poems do, all the requirements of length, climax and those many necessary features for a recitation. The subject was a theme of real pathos, beautified by the cheer and optimism of the little sufferer. Consequently when this couple left the hall I was very anxious to know the reason and asked a friend to find out. He learned that they had a little hunch-back child of their own. After this experience I never used that recitation again. On the other hand, it often required a long time for me to realize that the public would enjoy a poem which, because of some blind impulse, I thought unsuitable. Once a man said to me, 'Why don't you recite When the Frost Is on the Punkin?' The use of it had never occurred to me for I thought it 'wouldn't go.' He persuaded me to try it and it became one of my most favored recitations. Thus, I learned to judge and value my verses by their effect upon the public. Occasionally, at first, I had presumed to write 'over the heads' of the audience, consoling myself for the cool reception by thinking my auditors were not of sufficient intellectual height to appreciate my efforts. But after a time it came home to me that I myself was at fault in these failures, and then I disliked anything that did not appeal to the public and learned to discriminate between that which did not ring true to my hearers and that which won them by virtue of its truthfulness and was simply heart high."

As a reader of his own poems, as a teller of humorous stories, as a mimic, indeed as a finished actor, Riley's genius was rare and beyond question. In a lecture on the Humorous Story, Mark Twain, referring to the story of the One Legged Soldier and the different ways of telling it, once said:

"It takes only a minute and a half to tell it in its comic form; and it isn't worth telling after all. Put into the humorous-story form, it takes ten minutes, and is about the funniest thing I have ever listened to--as James Whitcomb Riley tells it.

"The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of Riley's old farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result is a performance which is thoroughly charming and delicious. This is art--and fine and beautiful, and only a master can compass it."

It was in that The Old Swimmin' Hole and 'Leven More Poems first appeared in volume form. Four years afterward, Riley made his initial appearance before a New York City audience. The entertainment was given in aid of an international copyright law, and the country's most distinguished men of letters took part in the program. It is probably true that no one appearing at that time was less known to the vast audience in Chickering Hall than James Whitcomb Riley, but so great and so spontaneous was the enthusiasm when he left the stage after his contribution to the first day's program, that the management immediately announced a place would be made for Mr. Riley on the second and last day's program. It was then that James Russell Lowell introduced him in the following words:

"Ladies and gentlemen: I have very great pleasure in presenting to you the next reader of this afternoon, Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, of Indiana. I confess, with no little chagrin and sense of my own loss, that when yesterday afternoon, from this platform, I presented him to a similar assemblage, I was almost completely a stranger to his poems. But since that time I have been looking into the volumes that have come from his pen, and in them I have discovered so much of high worth and tender quality that I deeply regret I had not long before made acquaintance with his work. To-day, in presenting Mr. Riley to you, I can say to you of my own knowledge, that you are to have the pleasure of listening to the voice of a true poet."

Two years later a selection from his poems was published in England under the title Old Fashioned Roses and his international reputation was established. In his own country the people had already conferred their highest degrees on him and now the colleges and universities--seats of conservatism--gave him scholastic recognition. Yale made him an Honorary Master of Arts in 1902; in 1903, Wabash and, a year later, the University of Pennsylvania conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Letters, and in 1907 Indiana University gave him his LL. D. Still more recently the Academy of Arts and Letters elected him to membership, and in 1912 awarded him the gold medal for poetry. About this time a yet dearer, more touching tribute came to him from school children. On October 7, 1911, the schools of Indiana and New York City celebrated his birthday by special exercises, and one year later, the school children of practically every section of the country had programs in his honor.

As these distinguished honors came they found him each time surprised anew and, though proud that they who dwell in the high places of learning should come in cap and gown to welcome him, yet gently and sincerely protesting his own unworthiness. And as they found him when they came so they left him.

Mr. Riley made his home in Indianapolis from the time judge Martindale invited him to join The Journal's forces, and no one of her citizens was more devoted, nor was any so universally loved and honored. Everywhere he went the tribute of quick recognition and cheery greeting was paid him, and his home was the shrine of every visiting Hoosier. High on a sward of velvet grass stands a dignified middle-aged brick house. A dwarfed stone wall, broken by an iron gate, guards the front lawn, while in the rear an old-fashioned garden revels in hollyhocks and wild roses. Here among his books and his souvenirs the poet spent his happy and contented days. To reach this restful spot, the pilgrim must journey to Lockerbie Street, a miniature thoroughfare half hidden between two more commanding avenues. It is little more than a lane, shaded, unpaved and from end to end no longer than a five minutes' walk, but its fame is for all time.

"Such a dear little street it is, nestled away From the noise of the city and heat of the day, In cool shady coverts of whispering trees, With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the breeze Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie Street!"

Riley never married. He lived with devoted, loyal and understanding friends, a part of whose life he became many years ago. Kindly consideration, gentle affection, peace and order,-- all that go to make home home, were found here blooming with the hollyhocks and the wild roses. Every day some visitor knocked for admittance and was not denied; every day saw the poet calling for some companionable friend and driving with him through the city's shaded streets or far out into the country.

And so his life drew on to its last and most beautiful year. Since his serious illness in 1910, the public had shown its love for him more and more frequently. On the occasion of his birthday in 1912, Greenfield had welcomed him home through a host of children scattering flowers. Anderson, where he was living when he first gained public recognition, had a Riley Day in 1913.

The Indiana State University entertained him the same year, as did also the city of Cincinnati. In 1915 there was a Riley Day at Columbus, Indiana, and during all this time each birthday and Christmas was marked by "poetry-showers," and by thousands of letters of affectionate congratulation and by many tributes in the newspapers and magazines.

His last birthday, October 7, 1915, was the most notable of all. Honorable Franklin K. Lane, Secretary of the Interior, suggested to the various school superintendents that one of Riley's poems be read in each schoolhouse, with the result that Riley celebrations were general among the children of the entire country. In a proclamation by Governor Ralston the State of Indiana designated the anniversary as Riley Day in honor of its "most beloved citizen." Thousands of letters and gifts from the poet's friends poured in--letters from schools and organizations and Riley Clubs as well as from individuals--while flowers came from every section of the country. Among them all, perhaps the poet was most pleased with a bunch of violets picked from the banks of the Brandywine by the children of a Riley school.

It was on this last birthday that an afternoon festival of Riley poems set to music and danced in pantomime took place at Indianapolis. This was followed at night by a dinner in his honor at which Charles Warren Fairbanks presided, and the speakers were Governor Ralston, Doctor John Finley, Colonel George Harvey, Young E. Allison, William Allen White, George Ade, Ex-Senator Beveridge and Senator Kern. That night Riley smiled his most wonderful smile, his dimpled boyish smile, and when he rose to speak it was with a perceptible quaver in his voice that he said: "Everywhere the faces of friends, a beautiful throng of friends!"

The winter and spring following, Riley spent quietly at Miami, Florida, where he had gone the two previous seasons to escape the cold and the rain. There was a Riley Day at Miami in February. In April, he returned home, feeling at his best, and, as if by premonition, sought out many of his friends, new and old, and took them for last rides in his automobile. A few days before the end, he visited Greenfield to attend the funeral of a dear boyhood chum, Almon Keefer, of whom he wrote in A Child-World. All Riley's old friends who were still left in Greenfield were gathered there and to them he spoke words of faith and good cheer. Almon Keefer had "just slipped out" quietly and peacefully, he said, and "it was beautiful."

And as quietly and peacefully his own end came--as he had desired it, with no dimming of the faculties even to the very close, nor suffering, nor confronting death. This was Saturday night, July 22, 1916. On Monday afternoon and evening his body lay in state under the dome of Indiana's capitol, while the people filed by, thousands upon thousands. Business men were there, and schoolgirls, matrons carrying market baskets, mothers with little children, here and there a swarthy foreigner, old folks, too, and well-dressed youths, here a farmer and his wife, and there a workman in a blue jumper with his hat in his band, silent, inarticulate, yet bidding his good-by, too. On the following day, with only his nearest and dearest about him, all that was mortal of the people's poet was quietly and simply laid to rest.

The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley

A BACKWARD LOOK

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday, And lazily leaning back in my chair, Enjoying myself in a general way-- Allowing my thoughts a holiday From weariness, toil and care,-- My fancies--doubtless, for ventilation-- Left ajar the gates of my mind,-- And Memory, seeing the situation, Slipped out in the street of "Auld Lang Syne."--

Wandering ever with tireless feet Through scenes of silence, and jubilee Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet Were thronging the shadowy side of the street As far as the eye could see; Dreaming again, in anticipation, The same old dreams of our boyhood's days That never come true, from the vague sensation Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways.

Away to the house where I was born! And there was the selfsame clock that ticked From the close of dusk to the burst of morn, When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn And helped when the apples were picked. And the "chany dog" on the mantel-shelf, With the gilded collar and yellow eyes, Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself Sound asleep with the dear surprise.

And down to the swing in the locust-tree, Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground, And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three Or four such other boys used to be "Doin' sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round": And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest, And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed, The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!

And again I gazed from the old schoolroom With a wistful look, of a long June day, When on my cheek was the hectic bloom Caught of Mischief, as I presume-- He had such a "partial" way, It seemed, toward me.--And again I thought Of a probable likelihood to be Kept in after school--for a girl was caught Catching a note from me.

And down through the woods to the swimming-hole-- Where the big, white, hollow old sycamore grows,-- And we never cared when the water was cold, And always "ducked" the boy that told On the fellow that tied the clothes.-- When life went so like a dreamy rhyme, That it seems to me now that then The world was having a jollier time Than it ever will have again.

PHILIPER FLASH

Young Philiper Flash was a promising lad, His intentions were good--but oh, how sad For a person to think How the veriest pink And bloom of perfection may turn out bad. Old Flash himself was a moral man, And prided himself on a moral plan, Of a maxim as old As the calf of gold, Of making that boy do what he was told.

And such a good mother had Philiper Flash; Her voice was as soft as the creamy plash Of the milky wave With its musical lave That gushed through the holes of her patent churn-dash;-- And the excellent woman loved Philiper so, She could cry sometimes when he stumped his toe,-- And she stroked his hair With such motherly care When the dear little angel learned to swear.

Old Flash himself would sometimes say That his wife had "such a ridiculous way,-- She'd, humor that child Till he'd soon be sp'iled, And then there'd be the devil to pay!" And the excellent wife, with a martyr's look, Would tell old Flash himself "he took No notice at all Of the bright-eyed doll Unless when he spanked him for getting a fall!"

Young Philiper Flash, as time passed by, Grew into "a boy with a roguish eye": He could smoke a cigar, And seemed by far The most promising youth.--"He's powerful sly, Old Flash himself once told a friend, "Every copper he gets he's sure to spend-- And," said he, "don't you know If he keeps on so What a crop of wild oats the boy will grow!"

But his dear good mother knew Philiper's ways So--well, she managed the money to raise; And old Flash himself Was "laid on the shelf," (In the manner of speaking we have nowadays). For "gracious knows, her darling child, If he went without money he'd soon grow wild." So Philiper Flash With a regular dash "Swung on to the reins," and went "slingin' the cash."

As old Flash himself, in his office one day, Was shaving notes in a barberous way, At the hour of four Death entered the door And shaved the note on his life, they say. And he had for his grave a magnificent tomb, Though the venturous finger that pointed "Gone Home," Looked white and cold From being so bold, As it feared that a popular lie was told.

Young Philiper Flash was a man of style When he first began unpacking the pile Of the dollars and dimes Whose jingling chimes Had clinked to the tune of his father's smile; And he strewed his wealth with such lavish hand, His rakish ways were the talk of the land, And gossipers wise Sat winking their eyes (A certain foreboding of fresh surprise).

A "fast young man" was Philiper Flash, And wore "loud clothes" and a weak mustache, And "done the Park," For an "afternoon lark," With a very fast horse of "remarkable dash." And Philiper handled a billiard-cue About as well as the best he knew, And used to say "He could make it pay By playing two or three games a day."

And Philiper Flash was his mother's joy, He seemed to her the magic alloy That made her glad, When her heart was sad, With the thought that "she lived for her darling boy." His dear good mother wasn't aware How her darling boy relished a "tare."-- She said "one night He gave her a fright By coming home late and ACTING tight."

Young Philiper Flash, on a winterish day, Was published a bankrupt, so they say-- And as far as I know I suppose it was so, For matters went on in a singular way; His excellent mother, I think I was told, Died from exposure and want and cold; And Philiper Flash, With a horrible slash, Whacked his jugular open and went to smash.

THE SAME OLD STORY

The same old story told again-- The maiden droops her head, The ripening glow of her crimson cheek Is answering in her stead. The pleading tone of a trembling voice Is telling her the way He loved her when his heart was young In Youth's sunshiny day: The trembling tongue, the longing tone, Imploringly ask why They can not be as happy now As in the days gone by. And two more hearts, tumultuous With overflowing joy, Are dancing to the music Which that dear, provoking boy Is twanging on his bowstring, As, fluttering his wings, He sends his love-charged arrows While merrily be sings: "Ho! ho! my dainty maiden, It surely can not be You are thinking you are master Of your heart, when it is me." And another gleaming arrow Does the little god's behest, And the dainty little maiden Falls upon her lover's breast. "The same old story told again," And listened o'er and o'er, Will still be new, and pleasing, too, Till "Time shall be no more."

TO A BOY WHISTLING

The smiling face of a happy boy With its enchanted key Is now unlocking in memory My store of heartiest joy.

And my lost life again to-day, In pleasant colors all aglow, From rainbow tints, to pure white snow, Is a panorama sliding away.

The whistled air of a simple tune Eddies and whirls my thoughts around, As fairy balloons of thistle-down Sail through the air of June.

O happy boy with untaught grace! What is there in the world to give That can buy one hour of the life you live Or the trivial cause of your smiling face!

AN OLD FRIEND

Hey, Old Midsummer! are you here again, With all your harvest-store of olden joys,-- Vast overhanging meadow-lands of rain, And drowsy dawns, and noons when golden grain Nods in the sun, and lazy truant boys Drift ever listlessly adown the day, Too full of joy to rest, and dreams to play.

The same old Summer, with the same old smile Beaming upon us in the same old way We knew in childhood! Though a weary while Since that far time, yet memories reconcile The heart with odorous breaths of clover hay; And again I hear the doves, and the sun streams through The old barn door just as it used to do.

And so it seems like welcoming a friend-- An old, OLD friend, upon his coming home From some far country--coming home to spend Long, loitering days with me: And I extend My hand in rapturous glee:--And so you've come!-- Ho, I'm so glad! Come in and take a chair: Well, this is just like OLD times, I declare!

WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING