Then we gather as we travel, Bits of moss and dirty gravel, Funny bugs, of handy sizes, Just to give the day a scientific tone. If the roads are wet and muddy While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum. We retire at eleven, And we rise again at 'seven; Are correct about their collars, 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 The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, 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 I'd want to 'commodate 'em-all the whole-indurin' flock When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. A PARTING GUEST 1 What delightful hosts are they- This late hour, yet glad enough So, with face lit with delight Yet to press their hands and say, "Thanks. So fine a time! Good night." '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. Eugene Field Although born (September 3, 1850) in St. Louis, Missouri, Eugene Field belongs to the literature of the far West. Colorado and the Rocky Mountain region claimed him as their own and Field never repudiated the allegiance; he even called most of his poetry "Western Verse." Field's area of education embraced New England, Missouri, and what European territory he could cover in six months. At twenty-three he became a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal, the rest of his life being given to journalism. Though Field may be overrated in some quarters, there is little doubt that certain of his child lyrics, his homely philosophic ballads (in the vein which Harte and Riley popularized) and his brilliant burlesques will occupy a niche in American letters. Readers of all tastes will find much to delight them in the complete one-volume edition of his verse which was issued in 1910. Field died in Chicago, Illinois, November 4, 1895. LITTLE BOY BLUE1 The little toy dog is covered with dust, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue "Now don't you go till I come," he said, He dreamt of the pretty toys; Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face; And they wonder, as waiting the long years through In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them and put them there. 1 Reprinted from The Complete Works of Eugene Field by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, holders of the copyright. |