The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley

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Memorial Edition
The Complete Works of
James Whitcomb Riley
IN TEN VOLUMES
Including Poems and Prose Sketches, many
of which have not heretofore been
published; an authentic Biography, an
elaborate Index and numerous
Illustrations in color from Paintings
by Howard Chandler Christy
and Ethyl Franklin Betts

VOLUME I

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON

COPYRIGHT
1883, 1885, 1887, 1888, 1890, 1891, 189, 1893, 1894,
1896, 1897, 1898, 1899, 1900, 1901, 190, 1903, 1904,
1905, 1906, 1907, 1908, 1909, 1910, 1911, 191, 1913,
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COPYRIGHT 1916
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

TO
THE MEMORY OF
James Whitcomb Riley
AND
IN PLEASANT RECOLLECTION OF MORE THAN THIRTY-FIVE YEARS
OF BUSINESS AND PERSONAL ASSOCIATION
THESE FINAL VOLUMES
ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

BORN: DIED:
October 7, 1849, July 22, 1916
Greenfield, Ind. Indianapolis, Ind.

CONTENTS

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY--A SKETCH
A BACKWARD LOOK
PHILIPER FLASH
THE SAME OLD STORY
TO A BOY WHISTLING
AN OLD FRIEND
WHAT SMITH KNEW ABOUT FARMING
A POET'S WOOING
MAN'S DEVOTION
A BALLAD
THE OLD TIMES WERE THE BEST
A SUMMER AFTERNOON
AT LAST
FARMER WHIPPLE--BACHELOR
MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET
THE SPEEDING OF THE KING'S SPITE
JOB WORK
PRIVATE THEATRICAL
PLAIN SERMONS
"TRADIN' JOE"
DOT LEEDLE BOY
I SMOKE MY PIPE
RED RIDING HOOD
IF I KNEW WHAT POETS KNOW
AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE
SQUIRE HAWKINS'S STORY
A COUNTRY PATHWAY
THE OLD GUITAR
"FRIDAY AFTERNOON"
"JOHNSON'S BOY"
HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS
NATURAL PERVERSITIES
THE SILENT VICTORS
SCRAPS
AUGUST
DEAD IN SIGHT OF FAME
IN THE DARK
THE IRON HORSE
DEAD LEAVES
OVER THE EYES OF GLADNESS
ONLY A DREAM
OUR LlTTLE GIRL
THE FUNNY LITTLE FELLOW
SONG OF THE NEW YEAR
A LETTER TO A FRIEND
LINES FOR AN ALBUM
TO ANNIE
FAME
AN EMPTY NEST
MY FATHER'S HALLS
THE HARP OF THE MINSTREL
HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB
JOHN WALSH
ORLIE WILDE
THAT OTHER MAUDE MULLER
A MAN OF MANY PARTS
THE FROG
DEAD SELVES
A DREAM OF LONG AGO
CRAQUEODOOM
JUNE
WASH LOWRY'S REMINISCENCE
THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN
PRIOR TO MISS BELLE'S APPEARANCE
WHEN MOTHER COMBED MY HAIR
A WRANGDILLION
GEORGE MULLEN'S CONFESSION
"TIRED OUT"
HARLIE
SAY SOMETHING TO ME
LEONAINIE
A TEST OF LOVE
FATHER WILLIAM
WHAT THE WIND SAID
MORTON
AN AUTUMNAL EXTRAVAGANZA
THE ROSE
THE MERMAN
THE RAINY MORNING
WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE
A SUMMER SUNRISE
DAS KRIST KINDEL
AN OLD YEAR'S ADDRESS
A NEW YEAR S PLAINT
LUTHER BENSON
DREAM
WHEN EVENING SHADOWS FALL
YLLADMAR
A FANTASY
A DREAM
DREAMER, SAY
BRYANT
BABYHOOD
LIBERTY
TOM VAN ARDEN

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY--A SKETCH

On Sunday morning, October seventh, 1849, Reuben A. Riley and his
wife, Elizabeth Marine Riley, rejoiced over the birth of their
second son. They called him James Whitcomb. This was in a shady
little street in the shady little town of Greenfield, which is in
the county of Hancock and the state of Indiana. The young James
found a brother and a sister waiting to greet him--John Andrew
and Martha Celestia, and afterward came Elva May--Mrs. Henry
Eitel-- Alexander Humbolt and Mary Elizabeth, who, of all, alone
lives to see this collection of her brother's poems.

James Whitcomb was a slender lad, with corn-silk hair and wide
blue eyes. He was shy and timid, not strong physically, dreading
the cold of winter, and avoiding the rougher sports of his
playmates. And yet he was full of the spirit of youth, a spirit
that manifested itself in the performance of many ingenious
pranks. His every-day life was that of the average boy in the
average country town of that day, but his home influences were
exceptional. His father, who became a captain of cavalry in the
Civil War, was a lawyer of ability and an orator of more than
local distinction. His mother was a woman of rare strength of
character combined with deep sympathy and a clear understanding.
Together, they made home a place to remember with thankful heart.

When James was twenty years old, the death of his mother made a
profound impression on him, an impression that has influenced
much of his verse and has remained with him always.

At an early age he was sent to school and, "then sent back
again," to use his own words. He was restive under what he
called the "iron discipline." A number of years ago, he spoke
of these early educational beginnings in phrases so picturesque
and so characteristic that they are quoted in full:

"My first teacher was a little old woman, rosy and roly-poly, who
looked as though she might have just come tumbling out of a fairy
story, so lovable was she and so jolly and so amiable. She kept
school in her little Dame-Trot kind of dwelling of three rooms,
with a porch in the rear, like a bracket on the wall, which was
part of the play-ground of her 'scholars,'--for in those days
pupils were called 'scholars' by their affectionate teachers.
Among the twelve or fifteen boys and girls who were there I
remember particularly a little lame boy, who always got the first
ride in the locust-tree swing during recess.

"This first teacher of mine was a mother to all her 'scholars,'
and in every way looked after their comfort, especially when
certain little ones grew drowsy. I was often, with others,
carried to the sitting-room and left to slumber on a small made-
down pallet on the floor. She would sometimes take three or four
of us together; and I recall how a playmate and I, having been
admonished into silence, grew deeply interested in watching a
spare old man who sat at a window with its shade drawn down.
After a while we became accustomed to this odd sight and would
laugh, and talk in whispers and give imitations, as we sat in a
low sewing-chair, of the little old pendulating blind man at the
window. Well, the old man was the gentle teacher's charge, and
for this reason, possibly, her life had become an heroic one,
caring for her helpless husband who, quietly content, waited
always at the window for his sight to come back to him. And
doubtless it is to-day, as he sits at another casement and sees
not only his earthly friends, but all the friends of the Eternal
Home, with the smiling, loyal, loving little woman forever at his
side.

"She was the kindliest of souls even when constrained to punish
us. After a whipping she invariably took me into the little
kitchen and gave me two great white slabs of bread cemented
together with layers of butter and jam. As she always whipped me
with the same slender switch she used for a pointer, and cried
over every lick, you will have an idea how much punishment I
could stand. When I was old enough to be lifted by the ears out
of my seat that office was performed by a pedagogue whom I
promised to 'whip sure, if he'd just wait till I got big enough.'
He is still waiting!

"There was but one book at school in which I found the slightest
interest: McGuffey's old leather-bound Sixth Reader. It was the
tallest book known, and to the boys of my size it was a matter of
eternal wonder how I could belong to 'the big class in that
reader.' When we were to read the death of 'Little Nell,' I
would run away, for I knew it would make me cry, that the other
boys would laugh at me, and the whole thing would become
ridiculous. I couldn't bear that. A later teacher, Captain Lee
O. Harris, came to understand me with thorough sympathy, took
compassion on my weaknesses and encouraged me to read the best
literature. He understood that he couldn't get numbers into my
head. You couldn't tamp them in! History I also disliked as a
dry thing without juice, and dates melted out of my memory as
speedily as tin-foil on a red-hot stove. But I always was ready
to declaim and took natively to anything dramatic or theatrical.
Captain Harris encouraged me in recitation and reading and had
ever the sweet spirit of a companion rather than the manner of an
instructor."

But if there was "only one book at school in which he found the
slightest interest," he had before that time displayed an
affection for a book--simply as such and not for any printed word
it might contain. And this, after all, is the true book-lover's
love. Speaking of this incident--and he liked to refer to it
as his "first literary recollection," he said: "Long
before I was old enough to read I remember buying a book at an
old auctioneer's shop in Greenfield. I can not imagine what
prophetic impulse took possession of me and made me forego the
ginger cakes and the candy that usually took every cent of my
youthful income. The slender little volume must have cost all of
twenty-five cents! It was Francis Quarles' Divine Emblems,--a
neat little affair about the size of a pocket Testament. I
carried it around with me all day long, delighted with the very
feel of it.

" 'What have you got there, Bub?' some one would ask. 'A book,'
I would reply. 'What kind of a book?' 'Poetry-book.' 'Poetry!'
would be the amused exclamation. 'Can you read poetry?' and,
embarrassed, I'd shake my head and make my escape, but I held on
to the beloved little volume."

Every boy has an early determination--a first one--to follow some
ennobling profession, once he has come to man's estate, such as
being a policeman, or a performer on the high trapeze. The poet
would not have been the "Peoples' Laureate," had his fairy god-
mother granted his boy-wish, but the Greenfield baker. For to
his childish mind it "seemed the acme of delight," using again
his own happy expression, "to manufacture those snowy loaves of
bread, those delicious tarts, those toothsome bon-bons. And then
to own them all, to keep them in store, to watch over and
guardedly exhibit. The thought of getting money for them was
to me a sacrilege. Sell them? No indeed. Eat 'em--eat 'em, by
tray loads and dray loads! It was a great wonder to me why the
pale-faced baker in our town did not eat all his good things.
This I determined to do when I became owner of such a grand
establishment. Yes, sir. I would have a glorious feast. Maybe
I'd have Tom and Harry and perhaps little Kate and Florry in to
help us once in a while. The thought of these play-mates as
'grown-up folks' didn't appeal to me. I was but a child, with
wide-open eyes, a healthy appetite and a wondering mind. That
was all. But I have the same sweet tooth to-day, and every time
I pass a confectioner's shop, I think of the big baker of our
town, and Tom and Harry and the youngsters all."

As a child, he often went with his father to the court-house
where the lawyers and clerks playfully called him "judge Wick."
Here as a privileged character he met and mingled with the
country folk who came to sue and be sued, and thus early the
dialect, the native speech, the quaint expressions of his "own
people" were made familiar to him, and took firm root in the
fresh soil of his young memory. At about this time, he made his
first poetic attempt in a valentine which he gave to his mother.
Not only did he write the verse, but he drew a sketch to
accompany it, greatly to his mother's delight, who, according to
the best authority, gave the young poet "three big cookies and
didn't spank me for two weeks. This was my earliest literary
encouragement."

Shortly after his sixteenth birthday, young Riley turned his back
on the little schoolhouse and for a time wandered through the
different fields of art, indulging a slender talent for painting
until he thought he was destined for the brush and palette, and
then making merry with various musical instruments, the banjo,
the guitar, the violin, until finally he appeared as bass drummer
in a brass band. "In a few weeks," he said, "I had beat myself
into the more enviable position of snare drummer. Then I wanted
to travel with a circus, and dangle my legs before admiring
thousands over the back seat of a Golden Chariot. In a dearth of
comic songs for the banjo and guitar, I had written two or three
myself, and the idea took possession of me that I might be a
clown, introduced as a character-song-man and the composer of my
own ballads.

"My father was thinking of something else, however, and one day I
found myself with a 'five-ought' paint brush under the eaves of
an old frame house that drank paint by the bucketful, learning to
be a painter. Finally, I graduated as a house, sign and
ornamental painter, and for two summers traveled about with a
small company of young fellows calling ourselves 'The Graphics,'
who covered all the barns and fences in the state with
advertisements."

At another time his, young man's fancy saw attractive
possibilities in the village print-shop, and later his
ambition was diverted to acting, encouraged by the good times he
had in the theatricals of the Adelphian Society of Greenfield.
"In my dreamy way," he afterward said, "I did a little of a
number of things fairly well--sang, played the guitar and violin,
acted, painted signs and wrote poetry. My father did not
encourage my verse-making for he thought it too visionary, and
being a visionary himself, he believed he understood the dangers
of following the promptings of the poetic temperament. I doubted
if anything would come of the verse-writing myself. At this time
it is easy to picture my father, a lawyer of ability, regarding
me, nonplused, as the worst case he had ever had. He wanted me
to do something practical, besides being ambitious for me to
follow in his footsteps, and at last persuaded me to settle down
and read law in his office. This I really tried to do
conscientiously, but finding that political economy and
Blackstone did not rhyme and that the study of law was
unbearable, I slipped out of the office one summer afternoon,
when all out-doors called imperiously, shook the last dusty
premise from my head and was away.

"The immediate instigator of my flight was a traveling medicine
man who appealed to me for this reason: My health was bad, very
bad,--as bad as I was. Our doctor had advised me to travel, but
how could I travel without money? The medicine man needed an
assistant and I plucked up courage to ask if I could join the
party and paint advertisements for him.

"I rode out of town with that glittering cavalcade without saying
good-by to any one, and though my patron was not a diplomaed
doctor, as I found out, he was a man of excellent habits, and the
whole company was made up of good straight boys, jolly chirping
vagabonds like myself. It was delightful to bowl over the
country in that way. I laughed all the time. Miles and miles of
somber landscape were made bright with merry song, and when the
sun shone and all the golden summer lay spread out before us, it
was glorious just to drift on through it like a wisp, of
thistle-down, careless of how, or when, or where the wind should
anchor us. 'There's a tang of gipsy blood in my veins that pants
for the sun and the air.'

"My duty proper was the manipulation of two blackboards, swung at
the sides of the wagon during our street lecture and concert.
These boards were alternately embellished with colored drawings
illustrative of the manifold virtues of the nostrum vended.
Sometimes I assisted the musical olio with dialect recitations
and character sketches from the back step of the wagon. These
selections in the main originated from incidents and experiences
along the route, and were composed on dull Sundays in lonesome
little towns where even the church bells seemed to bark at us."

On his return to Greenfield after this delightful but profitless
tour he became the local editor of his home paper and in a few
months "strangled the little thing into a change of ownership."
The new proprietor transferred him to the literary department and
the latter, not knowing what else to put in the space allotted
him, filled it with verse. But there was not room in his
department for all he produced, so he began, timidly, to offer
his poetic wares in foreign markets. The editor of The
Indianapolis Mirror accepted two or three shorter verses but in
doing so suggested that in the future he try prose. Being but an
humble beginner, Riley harkened to the advice, whereupon the
editor made a further suggestion; this time that he try poetry
again. The Danbury (Connecticut) News, then at the height of its
humorous reputation, accepted a contribution shortly after The
Mirror episode and Mr. McGeechy, its managing editor, wrote the
young poet a graceful note of congratulation. Commenting on
these parlous times, Riley afterward wrote, "It is strange how
little a thing sometimes makes or unmakes a fellow. In these
dark days I should have been content with the twinkle of the
tiniest star, but even this light was withheld from me. Just
then came the letter from McGeechy; and about the same time,
arrived my first check, a payment from Hearth and Home for a
contribution called A Destiny (now A Dreamer in A Child World).
The letter was signed, 'Editor' and unless sent by an assistant
it must have come from Ik Marvel himself, God bless him! I
thought my fortune made. Almost immediately I sent off another
contribution, whereupon to my dismay came this reply: 'The
management has decided to discontinue the publication and hopes
that you will find a market for your worthy work elsewhere.'
Then followed dark days indeed, until finally, inspired by my old
teacher and comrade, Captain Lee O. Harris, I sent some of my
poems to Longfellow, who replied in his kind and gentle manner
with the substantial encouragement for which I had long
thirsted."

In the year following, Riley formed a connection with The
Anderson (Indiana) Democrat and contributed verse and locals in
more than generous quantities. He was happy in this work and had
begun to feel that at last he was making progress when evil
fortune knocked at his door and, conspiring with circumstances
and a friend or two, induced the young poet to devise what
afterward seemed to him the gravest of mistakes,--the Poe-poem
hoax. He was then writing for an audience of county papers and
never dreamed that this whimsical bit of fooling would be carried
beyond such boundaries. It was suggested by these circumstances.

He was inwardly distressed by the belief that his failure to get
the magazines to accept his verse was due to his obscurity, while
outwardly he was harassed to desperation by the junior editor of
the rival paper who jeered daily at his poetical pretensions.
So, to prove that editors would praise from a known source what
they did not hesitate to condemn from one unknown, and to silence
his nagging contemporary, he wrote Leonainie in the style of
Poe, concocting a story, to accompany the poem, setting forth how
Poe came to write it and how all these years it had been lost to
view. In a few words Mr. Riley related the incident and then
dismissed it. "I studied Poe's methods. He seemed to have a
theory, rather misty to be sure, about the use of 'm's' and 'n's'
and mellifluous vowels and sonorous words. I remember that I was
a long time in evolving the name Leonainie, but at length the
verses were finished and ready for trial.

"A friend, the editor of The Kokomo Dispatch, undertook the
launching of the hoax in his paper; he did this with great
editorial gusto while, at the same time, I attacked the
authenticity of the poem in The Democrat. That diverted all
possible suspicion from me. The hoax succeeded far too well, for
what had started as a boyish prank became a literary discussion
nation-wide, and the necessary expose had to be made. I was
appalled at the result. The press assailed me furiously, and
even my own paper dismissed me because I had given the
'discovery' to a rival."

Two dreary and disheartening years followed this tragic event,
years in which the young poet found no present help, nor future
hope. But over in Indianapolis, twenty miles away, happier
circumstances were shaping themselves. Judge E. B. Martindale,
editor and proprietor of The Indianapolis Journal, had been
attracted by certain poems in various papers over the state and
at the very time that the poet was ready to confess himself
beaten, the judge wrote: "Come over to Indianapolis and we'll
give you, a place on The Journal." Mr. Riley went. That was the
turning point, and though the skies were not always clear, nor
the way easy, still from that time it was ever an ascending
journey. As soon as he was comfortably settled in his new
position, the first of the Benj. F. Johnson poems made its
appearance. These dialect verses were introduced with editorial
comment as coming from an old Boone county farmer, and their
reception was so cordial, so enthusiastic, indeed, that the
business manager of The Journal, Mr. George C. Hitt, privately
published them in pamphlet form and sold the first edition of one
thousand copies in local bookstores and over The Journal office
counter. This marked an epoch in the young poet's progress and
was the beginning of a friendship between him and Mr. Hitt that
has never known interruption. This first edition of The Old
Swimmin' Hole and 'Leven More Poems has since become extremely
rare and now commands a high premium. A second edition was
promptly issued by a local book dealer, whose successors, The
Bowen-Merrill Company--now The Bobbs-Merrill Company--have
continued, practically without interruption, to publish Riley's
work.

The call to read from the public platform had by this time become
so insistent that Riley could no longer resist it, although
modesty and shyness fought the battle for privacy. He told
briefly and in his own inimitable fashion of these trying
experiences. "In boyhood I had been vividly impressed with
Dickens' success in reading from his own works and dreamed that
some day I might follow his example. At first I read at Sunday-
school entertainments and later, on special occasions such as
Memorial Days and Fourth of Julys. At last I mustered up
sufficient courage to read in a city theater, where, despite the
conspiracy of a rainy night and a circus, I got encouragement
enough to lead me to extend my efforts. And so, my native state
and then the country at large were called upon to bear with me
and I think I visited every sequestered spot north or south
particularly distinguished for poor railroad connections. At
different times, I shared the program with Mark Twain, Robert J.
Burdette and George Cable, and for a while my gentlest and
cheeriest of friends, Bill Nye, joined with me and made the dusty
detested travel almost a delight. We were constantly playing
practical jokes on each other or indulging in some mischievous
banter before the audience. On one occasion, Mr. Nye, coming
before the foot-lights for a word of general introduction, said,
'Ladies and gentlemen, the entertainment to-night is of a dual
nature. Mr. Riley and I will speak alternately. First I come
out and talk until I get tired, then Mr. Riley comes out and
talks until YOU get tired!' And thus the trips went merrily
enough at times and besides I learned to know in Bill Nye a man
blessed with as noble and heroic a heart as ever beat. But the
making of trains, which were all in conspiracy to outwit me,
schedule or no schedule, and the rush and tyrannical pressure of
inviolable engagements, some hundred to a season and from Boston
to San Francisco, were a distress to my soul. I am glad that's
over with. Imagine yourself on a crowded day-long excursion;
imagine that you had to ride all the way on the platform of the
car; then imagine that you had to ride all the way back on the
same platform; and lastly, try to imagine how you would feel if
you did that every day of your life, and you will then get a
glimmer--a faint glimmer--of how one feels after traveling about
on a reading or lecturing tour.

"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."

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