But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall

Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call-

Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,

And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.

Charles Edward Carryl

Charles Edward Carryl, father of the gifted Guy Wetmore Carryl (see page 92), was born in New York City, December 30, 1842. He was an officer and director in various railroads but found leisure to write two of the few worthy rivals of the immortal Alice in Wonderland. These two, Davy and the Goblin (1884), and The Admiral's Caravan (1891), contain many lively and diverting ballads as well as inspired nonsense verses in the manner of his famous model.

C. E. Carryl lived the greater part of his life in New York but, on retiring from business, removed to Boston and lived there until his death, which occurred in the summer of 1920.

ROBINSON CRUSOE'S STORY

The night was thick and hazy
When the "Piccadilly Daisy"

Carried down the crew and captain in the sea;
And I think the water drowned 'em

For they never, never found 'em

And I know they didn't come ashore with me.

Oh! 'twas very sad and lonely When I found myself the only Population on this cultivated shore; But I've made a little tavern In a rocky little cavern,

And I sit and watch for people at the door.

I spent no time in looking

For a girl to do my cooking,

As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews;
But I had that fellow Friday,

Just to keep the tavern tidy,
And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.

I have a little garden

That I'm cultivating lard in,

As the things I eat are rather tough and dry;
For I live on toasted lizards,

Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards,
And I'm really very fond of beetle-pie.

The clothes I had were furry,

And it made me fret and worry

When I found the moths were eating off the hair;

And I had to scrape and sand 'em

And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em,

Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.

I sometimes seek diversion

In a family excursion

With the few domestic animals you see;

And we take along a carrot

As refreshment for the parrot

And a little can of jungleberry tea.

Then we gather as we travel,

Bits of moss and dirty gravel,
And we chip off little specimens of stone;
And we carry home as prizes
Funny bugs, of handy sizes,

Just to give the day a scientific tone.

If the roads are wet and muddy
We remain at home and study,-
For the Goat is very clever at a sum,—
And the Dog, instead of fighting,
Studies ornamental writing,

While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.

We retire at eleven,

And we rise again at seven;
And I wish to call attention, as I close,
To the fact that all the scholars

Are correct about their collars,
And particular in turning out their toes.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley, who was possibly the most widely read native poet of his day, was born October 7, 1849, in Greenfield, Indiana, a small town twenty miles from Indianapolis, where he spent his later years. Contrary to the popular belief, Riley was not, as many have gathered from his bucolic dialect poems, a struggling child_of_the soil; his father was a lawyer in comfortable circumstances and Riley was not only given a good education but was prepared for the law. However, his temperament was restless; it made him try sign-painting, circus advertising, journalism.

In 1882, when he was on the staff of the Indianapolis Journal, he began the series of dialect poems which he claimed were by a rude and unlettered farmer, one "Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone,

the Hoosier poet"-printing long extracts from "Boone's" ungrammatical and badly-spelt letters to prove his find. A collection of these rustic verses appeared, in 1883, as The Ole Swimmin' Hole; and Riley leaped into widespread popularity. Other collections followed rapidly: Afterwhiles (1887), OldFashioned Roses (1888), Rhymes of Childhood (1890). All met an instant response; Riley endeared himself, by his homely idiom and his ingenuity, to a countryful of readers, adolescent and adult.

That work of his which may endure, will survive because of the personal flavor that Riley often poured into it. Such poems as "When the Frost is on the Punkin," and "The Raggedy Man" are a part of American folk literature; "Little Orphant Annie" is read wherever there is a schoolhouse or, for that matter, a nursery.

Riley died in his little house in Lockerbie Street, Indianapolis, July 22, 1916.

"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN" 1

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,

And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,

And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

1 From the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright, 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is

here

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the

trees,

And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of

the bees;

But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the

morn;

The stubble in the furries-kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below-the clover overhead!O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps; And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!

I don't know how to tell it--but ef such a thing could be As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around

on me