Babyhood

Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger:
Let’s toddle home again, for we have gone astray;
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger
Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.
Turn back the leaves of life; don’t read the story,–
Let’s find the _pictures_, and fancy all the rest:–
We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory
Than Old Time, the story-teller, at his very best!
Turn to the brook, where the honeysuckle, tipping
O’er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze,
And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping
From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust trees.
Turn to the lane, where we used to “teeter-totter,”
Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold,
Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water
Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold:
Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel
Of the sunny sandbar in the middle-tide,
And the ghostly dragonfly pauses in his travel
To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died.
Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger:
Let’s toddle home again, for we have gone astray;
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger
Back to the Lotus lands of the far-away.

by James Whitcomb Riley

Away

I cannot say and I will not say
That she is dead, she is just away.
With a cheery smile and a wave of hand
She has wandered into an unknown land;
And left us dreaming how very fair
Its needs must be, since she lingers there.
And you-oh you, who the wildest yearn
From the old-time step and the glad return-
Think of her faring on, as dear
In the love of there, as the love of here
Think of her still the same way, I say;
She is not dead, she is just away.

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Masque Of The Seasons

Scene.–_A kitchen.–Group of Children, popping corn.–The Fairy Queen
of the Seasons discovered in the smoke of the corn-popper.–Waving her
wand, and, with eerie, sharp, imperious ejaculations, addressing the
bespelled auditors, who neither see nor hear her nor suspect her
presence._
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,–
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE JASPER
When I’m dressed warm as warm can be,
And with boots, to go
Through the deepest snow,
Winter-time is the time for me!
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,–
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE MILDRED
I like blossoms, and birds that sing;
The grass and the dew,
And the sunshine, too,–
So, best of all I like the Spring.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,–
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE MANDEVILLE
O little friends, I most rejoice
When I hear the drums
As the Circus comes,–
So Summer-time’s my special choice.
QUEEN
Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,–
Which do you like the best of all?
LITTLE EDITH
Apples of ruby, and pears of gold,
And grapes of blue
That the bee stings through.–
Fall–it is all that my heart can hold!
QUEEN
Soh! my lovelings and pretty dears,
You’ve _each_ a favorite, it appears,–
Summer and Winter and Spring and Fall.–
That’s the reason I send them _all_!

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Noon Interval

A deep, delicious hush in earth and sky —
A gracious lull–since, from its wakening,
The morn has been a feverish, restless thing
In which the pulse of Summer ran too high
And riotous, as though its heart went nigh
To bursting with delights past uttering:
Now–as an o’erjoyed child may cease to sing
All falteringly at play, with drowsy eye
Draining the pictures of a fairy-tale
To brim his dreams with–there comes o’er the day
A loathful silence wherein all sounds fail
Like loitering sounds of some roundelay . . .
No wakeful effort longer may avail —
The wand waves, and the dozer sinks away.

by James Whitcomb Riley

A New Year's Time At Willards's

1
The Hired Man Talks
There’s old man Willards; an’ his wife;
An’ Marg’et– S’repty’s sister–; an’
There’s me– an’ I’m the hired man;
An’ Tomps McClure, you better yer life!
Well now, old Willards hain’t so bad,
Considerin’ the chance he’s had.
Of course, he’s rich, an’ sleeps an’ eats
Whenever he’s a mind to: Takes
An’ leans back in the Amen-seats
An’ thanks the Lord fer all he makes–.
That’s purty much all folks has got
Ag’inst the old man, like as not!
But there’s his woman– jes the turn
Of them-air two wild girls o’ hern–
Marg’et an’ S’repty– allus in
Fer any cuttin’-up concern–
Church festibals, and foolishin’
Round Christmas-trees, an’ New Year’s sprees–
Set up to watch the Old Year go
An’ New Year come– sich things as these;
An’ turkey-dinners, don’t you know!
S’repty’s younger, an’ more gay,
An’ purtier, an’ finer dressed
Than Marg’et is– but, lawzy-day!
She hain’t the independentest!
“Take care!” old Willards used to say,
“Take care–! Let Marg’et have her way,
An’ S’repty, you go off an’ play
On your melodeum–!” But, best
Of all, comes Tomps! An’ I’ll be bound,
Ef he hain’t jes the beatin’est
Young chap in all the country round!
Ef you knowed Tomps you’d like him, shore!
They hain’t no man on top o’ ground
Walks into my affections more–!
An’ all the Settlement’ll say
That Tomps was liked jes thataway
By ever’body, till he tuk
A shine to S’repty Willards–. Then
You’d ort’o see the old man buck
An’ h’ist hisse’f, an’ paw the dirt,
An’ hint that “common workin’-men
That didn’t want their feelin’s hurt
‘Ud better hunt fer ‘comp’ny’ where
The folks was pore an’ didn’t care–!”
The pine-blank facts is–, the old man,
Last Christmas was a year ago,
Found out some presents Tomps had got
Fer S’repty, an’ hit made him hot–
Set down an’ tuk his pen in hand
An’ writ to Tomps an’ told him so
On legal cap, in white an’ black,
An’ give him jes to understand
“No Christmas-gifts o’ ‘lily-white’
An’ bear’s-ile could fix matters right,”
An’ wropped ’em up an’ sent ’em back!
Well, S’repty cried an’ snuffled round
Consid’able. But Marg’et she
Toed out another sock, an’ wound
Her knittin’ up, an’ drawed the tea,
An’ then set on the supper-things,
An’ went up in the loft an’ dressed–
An’ through it all you’d never guessed
What she was up to! An’ she brings
Her best hat with her an her shawl,
An’ gloves, an’ redicule, an’ all,
An’ injirubbers, an’ comes down
An’ tells ’em she’s a-goin’ to town
To he’p the Christmas goin’s-on
Her Church got up. An’ go she does–
The best hosswoman ever was!
“An” what’ll We do while you’re gone?”
The old man says, a-tryin’ to be
Agreeable. “Oh! You?” says she–,
“You kin jaw S’repty, like you did,
An’ slander Tomps!” An’ off she rid!
Now, this is all I’m goin’ to tell
Of this-here story– that is, I
Have done my very level best
As fur as this, an’ here I “dwell,”
As auctioneers says, winkin’ sly:
Hit’s old man Willards tells the rest.
2
The Old Man Talks
Adzackly jes one year ago,
This New Year’s day, Tomps comes to me–
In my own house, an’ whilse the folks
Was gittin’ dinner–, an’ he pokes
His nose right in, an’ says, says he:
“I got yer note– an’ read it slow!
You don’t like me, ner I don’t you,”
He says–, “we’re even there, you know!
But you’ve said, furder that no gal
Of yourn kin marry me, er shall,
An’ I’d best shet off comin’, too!”
An’ then he says–, “Well, them’s Your views–;
But havin’ talked with S’repty, we
Have both agreed to disagree
With your peculiar notions– some;
An’, that s the reason, I refuse
To quit a-comin’ here, but come–
Not fer to threat, ner raise no skeer
An’ spile yer turkey-dinner here–,
But jes fer S’repty’s sake, to sheer
Yer New Year’s. Shall I take a cheer?”
Well, blame-don! Ef I ever see
Sich impidence! I couldn’t say
Not nary word! But Mother she
Sot out a cheer fer Tomps, an’ they
Shuk hands an’ turnt their back on me.
Then I riz– mad as mad could be–!
But Marg’et says–, “Now, Pap! You set
Right where you’re settin’–! Don’t you fret!
An’ Tomps– you warm yer feet!” says she,
“An throw yer mitts an’ comfert on
The bed there! Where is S’repty gone!
The cabbage is a-scortchin’! Ma,
Stop cryin’ there an’ stir the slaw!”
Well–! What was Mother cryin’ fer–?
I half riz up– but Marg’et’s chin
Hit squared– an’ I set down ag’in–
I allus was afeard o’ her,
I was, by jucks! So there I set,
Betwixt a sinkin’-chill an’ sweat,
An’ scuffled with my wrath, an’ shet
My teeth to mighty tight, you bet!
An’ yit, fer all that I could do,
I eeched to jes git up an’ whet
The carvin’-knife a rasp er two
On Tomps’s ribs– an’ so would you–!
Fer he had riz an’ faced around,
An’ stood there, smilin’, as they brung
The turkey in, all stuffed an’ browned–
Too sweet fer nose, er tooth, er tongue!
With sniffs o’ sage, an’ p’r’aps a dash
Of old burnt brandy, steamin’-hot
Mixed kindo’ in with apple-mash
An’ mince-meat, an’ the Lord knows what!
Nobody was a-talkin’ then,
To ‘filiate any awk’ardness–
No noise o’ any kind but jes
The rattle o’ the dishes when
They’d fetch ’em in an’ set ’em down,
An’ fix an’ change ’em round an’ round,
Like women does– till Mother says–,
“Vittels is ready; Abner, call
Down S’repty– she’s up-stairs, I guess–.”
And Marg’et she says, “Ef you bawl
Like that, she’ll not come down at all!
Besides, we needn’t wait till she
Gits down! Here Temps, set down by me,
An’ Pap: say grace…!” Well, there I was–!
What could I do! I drapped my head
Behind my fists an’ groaned; an’ said–:
“Indulgent Parent! In Thy cause
We bow the head an’ bend the knee
An’ break the bread, an’ pour the wine,
Feelin’–” (The stair-door suddently
Went bang! An’ S’repty flounced by me–)
“Feelin’,” I says, “this feast is Thine–
This New Year’s feast–” an’ rap-rap-rap!
Went Marg’ets case-knife on her plate–
An’ next, I heerd a sasser drap–,
Then I looked up, an’ strange to state,
There S’repty set in Tomps lap–
An’ huggin’ him, as shore as fate!
An’ Mother kissin’ him k-slap!
An’ Marg’et– she chips in to drap
The ruther peert remark to me–:
“That ‘grace’ o’ yourn,” she says, “won’t ‘gee’–
This hain’t no ‘New Year’s feast,'” says she–,
“This is a’ Infair-Dinner, Pap!”
An’ so it was–! Be’n married fer
Purt’ nigh a week–! ‘Twas Marg’et planned
The whole thing fer ’em, through an’ through.
I’m rickonciled; an’ understand,
I take things jes as they occur–,
Ef Marg’et liked Tomps, Tomps ‘ud do–!
But I-says-I, a-holt his hand–,
“I’m glad you didn’t marry Her–
‘Cause Marg’et’s my guardeen– yes-sir–!
An’ S’repty’s good enough fer you!”

by James Whitcomb Riley

A New Year's Plaint

In words like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
–TENNYSON.
The bells that lift their yawning throats
And lolling tongues with wrangling cries
Flung up in harsh, discordant notes,
As though in anger, at the skies,–
Are filled with echoings replete,
With purest tinkles of delight–
So I would have a something sweet
Ring in the song I sing to-night.
As when a blotch of ugly guise
On some poor artist’s naked floor
Becomes a picture in his eyes,
And he forgets that he is poor,–
So I look out upon the night,
That ushers in the dawning year,
And in a vacant blur of light
I see these fantasies appear.
I see a home whose windows gleam
Like facets of a mighty gem
That some poor king’s distorted dream
Has fastened in his diadem.
And I behold a throng that reels
In revelry of dance and mirth,
With hearts of love beneath their heels,
And in their bosoms hearts of earth.
O Luxury, as false and grand
As in the mystic tales of old,
When genii answered man’s command,
And built of nothing halls of gold!
O Banquet, bright with pallid jets,
And tropic blooms, and vases caught
In palms of naked statuettes,
Ye can not color as ye ought!
For, crouching in the storm without,
I see the figure of a child,
In little ragged roundabout,
Who stares with eyes that never smiled–
And he, in fancy can but taste
The dainties of the kingly fare,
And pick the crumbs that go to waste
Where none have learned to kneel in prayer.
Go, Pride, and throw your goblet down–
The “merry greeting” best appears
On loving lips that never drown
Its worth but in the wine of tears;
Go, close your coffers like your hearts,
And shut your hearts against the poor,
Go, strut through all your pretty parts
But take the “Welcome” from your door.

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Monument For The Soldiers

A monument for the Soldiers!
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers’ love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure:
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
Can the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave!
The marble lips, and breast and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the old flag in the skies!
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people’s love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it oft
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate!

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Passing Hail

Let us rest ourselves a bit!
Worry?– wave your hand to it —
Kiss your finger-tips and smile
It farewell a little while.

Weary of the weary way
We have come from Yesterday,
Let us fret not, instead,
Of the wary way ahead.

Let us pause and catch our breath
On the hither side of death,
While we see the tender shoots
Of the grasses — not the roots,–

While we yet look down — not up —
To seek out the buttercup
And the daisy where they wave
O’er the green home of the grave.

Let us launch us smoothly on
The soft billows of the lawn,
And drift out across the main
Of our childish dreams again:

Voyage off, beneath the trees,
O’er the field’s enchanted seas,
Where the lilies are our sails,
And our sea-gulls, nightingales:

Where no wilder storm shall beat
Than the wind that waves the wheat,
And no tempest-burst above
The old laughs we used to love:

Lose all troubles — gain release,
Languor, and exceeding peace,
Cruising idly o’er the vast,
Calm mid-ocean of the Past.

Let us rest ourselves a bit!
Worry? — Wave your hand to it —
Kiss your finger-tips and smile
It fare well a little while.

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Parting Guest

What delightful hosts are they —
Life and Love!
Lingeringly I turn away,
This late hour, yet glad enough
They have not withheld from me
Their high hospitality.
So, with face lit with delight
And all gratitude, I stay
Yet to press their hands and say,
“Thanks. — So fine a time! Good night.”

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Parent Reprimanded

Sometimes I think ‘at Parents does
Things ist about as bad as _us_–
Wite ‘fore our vurry eyes, at that!
Fer one time Pa he scold’ my Ma
‘Cause he can’t find his hat;
An’ she ist _cried_, she did! An’ I
Says, “Ef you scold my Ma
Ever again an’ make her cry,
Wy, you sha’n’t _be_ my Pa!”
An’ nen he laugh’ an’ find his hat
Ist wite where Ma she said it’s at!

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Poet's Wooing

I woo’d a woman once,
But she was sharper than an eastern wind.
Tennyson

“What may I do to make you glad,
To make you glad and free,
Till your light smiles glance
And your bright eyes dance
Like sunbeams on the sea?
Read some rhyme that is blithe and gay
Of a bright May morn and a marriage day?”
And she sighed in a listless way she had,–
“Do not read–it will make me sad!”

“What shall I do to make you glad–
To make you glad and gay,
Till your eyes gleam bright
As the stars at night
When as light as the light of day
Sing some song as I twang the strings
Of my sweet guitar through its wanderings?”
And she sighed in the weary way she had,–
“Do not sing–it will make me sad!”

“What can I do to make you glad–
As glad as glad can be,
Till your clear eyes seem
Like the rays that gleam
And glint through a dew-decked tree?–
Will it please you, dear, that I now begin
A grand old air on my violin?”
And she spoke again in the following way,–
“Yes, oh yes, it would please me, sir;
I would be so glad you’d play
Some grand old march–in character,–
And then as you march away
I will no longer thus be sad,
But oh, so glad–so glad–so glad!”

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Prospective Visit

While _any_ day was notable and dear
That gave the children Noey, history here
Records his advent emphasized indeed
With sharp italics, as he came to feed
The stock one special morning, fair and bright,
When Johnty and Bud met him, with delight
Unusual even as their extra dress–
Garbed as for holiday, with much excess
Of proud self-consciousness and vain conceit
In their new finery.–Far up the street
They called to Noey, as he came, that they,
As promised, both were going back that day
To _his_ house with him!
And by time that each
Had one of Noey’s hands–ceasing their speech
And coyly anxious, in their new attire,
To wake the comment of their mute desire,–
Noey seemed rendered voiceless. Quite a while
They watched him furtively.–He seemed to smile
As though he would conceal it; and they saw
Him look away, and his lips purse and draw
In curious, twitching spasms, as though he might
Be whispering,–while in his eye the white
Predominated strangely.–Then the spell
Gave way, and his pent speech burst audible:
“They wuz two stylish little boys,
and they wuz mighty bold ones,
Had two new pairs o’ britches made
out o’ their daddy’s old ones!”
And at the inspirational outbreak,
Both joker and his victims seemed to take
An equal share of laughter,–and all through
Their morning visit kept recurring to
The funny words and jingle of the rhyme
That just kept getting funnier all the time.

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Scrawl

I want to sing something– but this is all–
I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull
As though they were damp, and the echoes fall
Limp and unlovable.
Words will not say what I yearn to say–
They will not walk as I want them to,
But they stumble and fall in the path of the way
Of my telling my love for you.
Simply take what the scrawl is worth–
Knowing I love you as sun the sod
On the ripening side of the great round earth
That swings in the smile of God.

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Rough Sketch

I caught, for a second, across the crowd–
Just for a second, and barely that–
A face, pox-pitted and evil-browed,
Hid in the shade of a slouch-rim’d hat–
With small gray eyes, of a look as keen
As the long, sharp nose that grew between.
And I said: ‘Tis a sketch of Nature’s own,
Drawn i’ the dark o’ the moon, I swear,
On a tatter of Fate that the winds have blown
Hither and thither and everywhere–
With its keen little sinister eyes of gray,
And nose like the beak of a bird of prey!

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Session With Uncle Sidney

I
ONE OF HIS ANIMAL STORIES
Now, Tudens, you sit on _this_ knee–and ‘scuse
It having no side-saddle on;–and, Jeems,
You sit on _this_–and don’t you wobble so
And chug my old shins with your coppertoes;–
And, all the rest of you, range round someway,–
Ride on the rockers and hang to the arms
Of our old-time splint-bottom carryall!–
Do anything but _squabble_ for a place,
Or push or shove or scrouge, or breathe _out loud_,
Or chew wet, or knead taffy in my beard!–
Do _any_thing almost–act _any_way,–
Only _keep still_, so I can hear myself
Trying to tell you “just one story more!”
One winter afternoon my father, with
A whistle to our dog, a shout to us–
His two boys–six and eight years old we were,–
Started off to the woods, a half a mile
From home, where he was chopping wood. We raced,
We slipped and slid; reaching, at last, the north
Side of Tharp’s corn-field.–There we struck what seemed
To be a coon-track–so we all agreed:
And father, who was not a hunter, to
Our glad surprise, proposed we follow it.
The snow was quite five inches deep; and we,
Keen on the trail, were soon far in the woods.
Our old dog, “Ring,” ran nosing the fresh track
With whimpering delight, far on ahead.
After following the trail more than a mile
To northward, through the thickest winter woods
We boys had ever seen,–all suddenly
He seemed to strike _another_ trail; and then
Our joyful attention was drawn to
Old “Ring”–leaping to this side, then to that,
Of a big, hollow, old oak-tree, which had
Been blown down by a storm some years before.
There–all at once–out leapt a lean old fox
From the black hollow of a big bent limb,–
Hey! how he scudded!–but with our old “Ring”
Sharp after him–and father after “Ring”–
We after father, near as we could hold!
And father noticed that the fox kept just
About four feet ahead of “Ring”–just _that_–
No farther, and no nearer! Then he said:–
“There are young foxes in that tree back there,
And the mother-fox is drawing ‘Ring’ and us
Away from their nest there!” “Oh, le’ ‘s go back!–
Do le’ ‘s go back!” we little vandals cried,–
“Le’ ‘s go back, quick, and find the little things–
_Please_, father!–Yes, and take ’em home for pets–
‘Cause ‘Ring’ he’ll kill the old fox anyway!”
So father turned at last, and back we went,
And father chopped a hole in the old tree
About ten feet below the limb from which
The old fox ran, and–Bless their little lives!–
There, in the hollow of the old tree-trunk–
There, on a bed of warm dry leaves and moss–
There, snug as any bug in any rug–
We found–one–two–three–four, and, yes-sir, _five_
Wee, weenty-teenty baby-foxes, with
Their eyes just barely opened–_Cute_?–my-oh!–
_The_ cutest–the most cunning little things
Two boys ever saw, in all their lives!
“Raw weather for the little fellows _now_!”
Said father, as though talking to himself,–
“Raw weather, and no home _now_!”–And off came
His warm old “waumus”; and in that he wrapped
The helpless little animals, and held
Them soft and warm against him as he could,–
And home we happy children followed him.–
_Old “Ring”_ did not reach home till nearly dusk:
The mother-fox had led him a long chase–
“Yes, and a fool’s chase, too!” he seemed to say,
And looked ashamed to hear us _praising_ him.
But, _mother_–well, we _could not_ understand
_Her_ acting as she did–and we so _pleased_!
I can see yet the look of pained surprise
And deep compassion of her troubled face
When father very gently laid his coat,
With the young foxes in it, on the hearth
Beside her, as she brightened up the fire.
She urged–for the old fox’s sake and theirs–
That they be taken back to the old tree;
But father–for _our_ wistful sakes, no doubt–
Said we would keep them, and would try our best
To raise them. And at once he set about
Building a snug home for the little things
Out of an old big bushel-basket, with
Its fractured handle and its stoven ribs:
So, lining and padding this all cosily,
He snuggled in its little tenants, and
Called in John Wesley Thomas, our hired man,
And gave him in full charge, with much advice
Regarding the just care and sustenance of
_Young_ foxes.–“John,” he said, “you feed ’em _milk_–
_Warm_ milk, John Wesley! Yes, and _keep ’em by_
_The stove_–and keep your stove _a-roarin’_, too,
Both night and day!–And keep ’em _covered_ up–
Not _smothered_, John, but snug and comfortable.–
And now, John Wesley Thomas, first and last,–
You feed ’em _milk_–_fresh_ milk–and always _warm_–
Say five or six or seven times a day–
Of course we’ll grade that by the way they _thrive_.”
But, for all sanguine hope, and care, as well,
The little fellows _did not_ thrive at all.–
Indeed, with _all_ our care and vigilance,
By the third day of their captivity
The last survivor of the fated five
Squeaked, like some battered little rubber toy
Just clean worn out.–And that’s just what it was!
And–nights,–the cry of the mother-fox for her young
Was heard, with awe, for long weeks afterward.
And we boys, every night, would go to the door
And, peering out in the darkness, listening,
Could hear the poor fox in the black bleak woods
Still calling for her little ones in vain.
As, all mutely, we returned to the warm fireside,
Mother would say: “How would you like for _me_
To be out there, this dark night, in the cold woods,
Calling for _my_ children?”
II
UNCLE BRIGHTENS UP–
Uncle he says ‘at ‘way down in the sea
Ever’thing’s ist like it _used_ to be:–
He says they’s mermaids, an’ mermens, too,
An’ little merchildern, like me an’ you–
Little merboys, with tops an’ balls,
An’ little mergirls, with little merdolls.
Uncle Sidney’s vurry proud
Of little Leslie-Janey,
‘Cause she’s so smart, an’ goes to school
Clean ‘way in Pennsylvany!
She print’ an’ sent a postul-card
To Uncle Sidney, telling
How glad he’ll be to hear that she
“Toock the onners in Speling.”
Uncle he learns us to rhyme an’ write
An’ all be poets an’ all recite:
His little-est poet’s his little-est niece,
An’ this is her little-est poetry-piece.
III
SINGS A “WINKY-TOODEN” SONG–
O here’s a little rhyme for the Spring- or Summer-time–
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!–
Just a little bit o’ tune you can twitter, May or June,
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
It’s a song that soars and sings,
As the birds that twang their wings
Or the katydids and things
Thus and so, don’t you know,
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
It’s a song just broken loose, with no reason or excuse–
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
You can sing along with it–or it matters not a bit–
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
It’s a lovely little thing
That ‘most any one could sing
With a ringle-dingle-ding,
Soft and low, don’t you know,
An a-ho-winky-tooden-an-a-ho!
IV
AND MAKES NURSERY RHYMES
1
THE DINERS IN THE KITCHEN
Our dog Fred
Et the bread.
Our dog Dash
Et the hash.
Our dog Pete
Et the meat.
Our dog Davy
Et the gravy.
Our dog Toffy
Et the coffee.
Our dog Jake
Et the cake.
Our dog Trip
Et the dip.
And–the worst,
From the first,–
Our dog Fido
Et the pie-dough.
2
THE IMPERIOUS ANGLER
Miss Medairy Dory-Ann
Cast her line and caught a man,
But when he looked so pleased, alack!
She unhooked and plunked him back.–
“I never like to catch what I can,”
Said Miss Medairy Dory-Ann.
3
THE GATHERING OF THE CLANS
[_Voice from behind high board-fence_.]
“Where’s the crowd that dares to go
Where I dare to lead?–you know!”
“Well, here’s _one_!”
Shouts Ezry Dunn.
“Count me _two_!”
Yells Cootsy Drew.
“Here’s yer _three_!”
Sings Babe Magee.
“Score me _four_!”
Roars Leech-hole Moore.
“Tally–_five_!”
Howls Jamesy Clive.
“I make _six_!”
Chirps Herbert Dix.
“Punctchul!–_seven_!”
Pipes Runt Replevin.
“Mark me _eight_!”
Grunts Mealbag Nate.
“I’m yet _nine_!”
Growls “Lud’rick” Stein.
“Hi! here’s _ten_!”
Whoops Catfish Ben.
“And now we march, in daring line,
For the banks of Brandywine!”
4
“IT”
A wee little worm in a hickory-nut
Sang, happy as he could be,–
“O I live in the heart of the whole round world,
And it all belongs to me!”
5
THE DARING PRINCE
A daring prince, of the realm Rangg Dhune,
Once went up in a big balloon
That caught and stuck on the horns of the moon,
And he hung up there till next day noon–
When all at once he exclaimed, “Hoot-toot!”
And then came down in his parachute.

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Song Of Singing

Sing! gangling lad, along the brink
Of wild brook-ways of shoal and deep,
Where killdees dip, and cattle drink,
And glinting little minnows leap!
Sing! slimpsy lass who trips above
And sets the foot-log quivering!
Sing! bittern, bumble-bee, and dove–
Sing! Sing! Sing!
Sing as you will, O singers all
Who sing because you _want_ to sing!
Sing! peacock on the orchard wall,
Or tree-toad by the trickling spring!
Sing! every bird on every bough–
Sing! every living, loving thing–
Sing any song, and anyhow,
But Sing! Sing! Sing!

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Song Of Long Ago

A song of Long Ago:
Sing it lightly–sing it low–
Sing it softly–like the lisping of the lips we used to know
When our baby-laughter spilled
From the glad hearts ever filled
With music blithe as robin ever trilled!
Let the fragrant summer-breeze,
And the leaves of locust-trees,
And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees,
All palpitate with glee,
Till the happy harmony
Brings back each childish joy to you and me.
Let the eyes of fancy turn
Where the tumbled pippins burn
Like embers in the orchard’s lap of tangled grass and fern,–
There let the old path wind
In and out and on behind
The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.
Blend in the song the moan
Of the dove that grieves alone,
And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble’s drowsy drone;
And the low of cows that call
Through the pasture-bars when all
The landscape fades away at evenfall.
Then, far away and clear,
Through the dusky atmosphere,
Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear:
O sad and sweet and low
As the memory may know
Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago!

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Song

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;
There is ever a something sings alway:
There’s the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves dip rain,
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear–
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear
There is ever a song somewhere!
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue:
The robin pipes when the sun is here,
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.
The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow,
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear;
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear–
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear–
There is ever a song somewhere!

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Spring Song And A Later

She sang a song of May for me,
Wherein once more I heard
The mirth of my glad infancy–
The orchard’s earliest bird–
The joyous breeze among the trees
New-clad in leaf and bloom,
And there the happy honey-bees
In dewy gleam and gloom.
So purely, sweetly on the sense
Of heart and spirit fell
Her song of Spring, its influence–
Still irresistible,–
Commands me here–with eyes ablur–
To mate her bright refrain.
Though I but shed a rhyme for her
As dim as Autumn rain.

by James Whitcomb Riley

A Southern Singer

Written In Madison Caweln’s “Lyrics and Idyls.”
Herein are blown from out the South
Songs blithe as those of Pan’s pursed mouth–
As sweet in voice as, in perfume,
The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.
Such sumptuous languor lures the sense–
Such luxury of indolence–
The eyes blur as a nymph’s might blur,
With water-lilies watching her.
You waken, thrilling at the trill
Of some wild bird that seems to spill
The silence full of winey drips
Of song that Fancy sips and sips.
Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough
The chipmunk stripes himself from view,
You pause to lop a creamy spray
Of elder-blossoms by the way.
Or where the morning dew is yet
Gray on the topmost rail, you set
A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet
Your vaulting shadow in the wheat.
On lordly swards, of suave incline,
Entessellate with shade and shine,
You shall misdoubt your lowly birth,
Clad on as one of princely worth:
The falcon on your wrist shall ride–
Your milk-white Arab side by side
With one of raven-black.–You fain
Would kiss the hand that holds the rein.
Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer!
Sing us back home–from there to here;
Grant your high grace and wit, but we
Most honor your simplicity.–
Herein are blown from out the South
Songs blithe as those of Pan’s pursed mouth–
As sweet in voice as, in perfume,
The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

by James Whitcomb Riley