Part 1

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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.'