828
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are

CIENTES
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SLOTS
LEVERED
200M
RILEY DAY
DAY
DEC 2015
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UNIV. OF MICH
LIBRARY
1939
1398
9)
200.00030
FXPRESS
INDIANA
October 7, 1915

Suggestions and Materials
RILEY DAY
PROGRAMS
By
CHARLES A. GREATHOUSE
State Superintendent of Public Instruction
INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA
ceive

Parade of School Children Past Riley's Home on His Birthday, October 7, 1913
O my Lockerbie Street! You are fair to be seen-
Be it noon of the day, or the rare and serene
Afternoon of the night-you are one to my heart,
And I love you above all the phrases of art,
For no language could frame and no lips could repeat
My rhyme-haunted raptures of Lockerbie Street.
From Lockerbie Street,
Tuo
wa 81-9-11 0
A PROCLAMATION
James Whitcomb Riley was born on the 7th day of October, 1849, in
Greenfield, Hancock county, Indiana ; and he has lived all his life in the
state of his birth. He is a Hoosier to the core.
In his early boyhood he was afforded the usual educational advantages
common to boys in his station in life; but those advantages were really
hindrances to him. He was a genius and his spirit sought realms beyond
the schoolroom. It was impossible to throw limits about the sweep of his
mind by the inflexible rules of the schoolmaster; and he instinctively
accepted the world as his field of labor, and the human heart as the source
of his inspiration and the object of his devotion.
Whether the arch above his head was at times one of sunshine or one
of cloud, all recognized that in the depths of his soul there was love for
his fellowman and adoration for his God. Whether he was painting signs
or writing verses, the people were his study. He familiarized himself with
their manners and customs and characteristics, and “with melody and
sweetness and a singular gift of invention”, he told them things about
themselves they did not know. This is why they have always loved him so.
More than any other citizen of Indiana, James Whitcomb Riley has
carried the fame of his native state into the schools and homes of the
world. It is not strange, therefore, that there should be a widespread
feeling among our people that the next anniversary of his birth should be
celebrated in honor of his poetic genius and his literary achievements and
in recognition of his contributions to society. t
The people are grateful to those who honor and serve them, and will.
ingly make public acknowledgment therefor. To whom could they with
greater propriety pay such tribute than to this sweet singer. He is the
children's poet, and he has become such because he has so much of the
spirit of the One who said “Suffer little children to come unto me". All
Indiana will rejoice, therefore, to see her children afforded an opportunity
to place their heart wreaths upon his brow and strew their flowers about
his feet.
NOW, THEREFORE, I, Samuel M. Ralston, as Governor of the State
of Indiana, hereby designate and proclaim
the 7th day of October, A. D. 1915,
the anniversary of the birth of James Whitcomb Riley,
>
TE
as
RILEY DAY
and I urge all the people of the state to arrange in their respective com-
munities, in their own way, appropriate public exercises in their schools
and at their other public meeting places; and that they display the Amer-
ican Flag at their homes and places of business on this day, in honor of
James Whitcomb Riley, Indiana's most beloved citizen.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have set my hand and
caused to be affixed the Great Seal of the State of
Indiana, at the Capitol, in the City of Indianapolis, this
8th day of September, A. D. 1915.
3*
Samul khathir
M
By the Governor:
Governor.
Homer L. Cook
Secretary of State.
Three

4
SEPTEMBER 9, 1915.
Governor Samuel M. Ralston:
DEAR GOVERNOR—In your proclamation in this morning's Star you have
done me an exceeding great honor, and one for which my gratitude goes
out to you with a feeling and fervor as joyous as the brightest smiles and
as deep as very tears. Truly, my debt to you is great beyond speech, and
I only set this down in lieu of all appropriate expression.
Most gratefully and faithfully yours,
Jauns Whitent Rihy
Four
TO THE TEACHERS OF INDIANA
To the Teachers and Superintendents—October seventh, nineteen hun-
dred and fifteen, has been set aside by Governor Ralston as Riley Day and
all the people of the state have been urged to arrange in their respective
communities and in their own way, appropriate public exercises in honor of
Indiana's most beloved citizen-James Whitcomb Riley.
It is particularly fitting that the teachers and children of the state
should thus pay their tribute of love and admiration to our own beloved
poet by appropriately observing his birthday. James Whitcomb Riley is
the sympathetic interpreter, not only of child nature and life, but of the
common heart of our people, and the teachers of the public school, more
than any one else, represent the people of the entire state. Mr. Riley is,
in fact, one of us. He speaks our tongue. His words are the language of
our people. He interprets the innermost longings and faiths of our hearts.
He expresses in words of music our deepest sympathies and hopes. He
loves and understands children as no poet ever did, and believes that the
beauty and innocence of youth is the loveliest thing in human life.
It is, therefore, right that the children and teachers of the entire state
should pay their tribute of love and respect to this interpreter of childhood
and master singer of our people. You will do well to honor, by appro-
priate exercises, the man who is the teacher of us all. The man who has
found in the lives and hearts of our own Indiana people, wherever he
looked or listened, unheralded and unsuspected sources of song.
It is my desire that appropriate exercises be held in every school in
the state Thursday, October seventh, nineteen hundred and fifteen, in com-
pliance with the Governor's wish.
Trusting that the following suggestions and program which we have
prepared in the hope of giving you some assistance in arranging for this
celebration may prove of service to you, I remain,
Very sincerely yours,
CM.
cachecoce
State Superintendent of Public Instruction
Five
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
"But he that is greatest among you, let him be as the younger;
and he that is chief as he that doth serve."
A little boy once wrote to James Whitcomb Riley and said, “I tell you
what, Mr. Riley, I was glad to learn you was living because I thought all
poets was dead.'
This was all especially funny because at heart Mr. Riley is as spry
and sprightly as ever and as lively as when he used to romp barefoot across
the dewy grass in the mornings long
ago. But he was born many years
since—over three score -so long ago,
in fact, that he came into the world
in a little log cabin, weatherboarded
over, lighted through little square
panes daytimes and by candles at
night. And one day his father bought
his first oil lamp. “To us it gave forth
marvellously lustrous light, says
Mr. Riley with a smile. “Father came
home with the lamp and chimney in
one hand, and a bottle of coal oil in
the other, and tinkered with the out-
fit all evening for the family's benefit.
I was then reading the Arabian
"Jimmy" Riley. Going On Six Nights, wholly enraptured with that
magic story, and had come to the tale
of the Wonderful Lamp and the cry of new lamps for old. Well—the smell
of that coal oil became associated in my mind with Aladdin and his Won-
derful Lamp, and to this day I cannot smell coal oil without recalling the
old delights of the story and feeling myself lying prone on my stomach
reading, reading, and reading by the hour."
The picture (on page nine) shows “Jimmy” Riley and his mother,
whom he loved above all else with all his heart, and whom he recalls in the
lines :
Restore her thus, ( blessed Memory !
Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee
Her sewing-her workbasket on the floor
Beside her,-Springtime through the open door
Balmily stealing in and all about
The room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shout
And laughter of the children at their play,
And neighbor-children from across the way
Calling in gleeful challenge-save alone
One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone
The boy, prone on the floor, above a book
Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look-
Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell,
Is lifted, with a light ineffable-
As though her senses caught no mortal cry,
But heard, instead, some poem going by.
“Jimmy” or “Bud” was fond of books from the very first-even before
he could read—or even before he could spell without reading. “Long
before I was old enough to read," he says, “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

r
Sic
6
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.
And now you ought to know how he looked. He wasn't a handsome
boy, he had whitish hair and very pale eyes, and oh so many freckles,
"which was a great offense,” he says. Perhaps he wanted the little girls
to like him better; perhaps he was sensitive when the “kids” called him
“spotted face”; anyway he was ashamed of the freckles and yearned to get
rid of them.
"And so one day," he says, "my heart was made glad by the sight of
a bottle in a drug store window-a bottle with an ultramarine blue label
ri
-

o
BIRTHPLACE, 94
JAMES WHITCOMB
RILEY,
lettered in gold, on which I read, 'Sure cure for moth, tan, freckles, etc.”—
oh, there were a hundred things it guaranteed to do and above all the rest,
positively to remove freckles. After a few days' gazing at the bottle out
of school hours I mustered up courage to price it. Fifty cents! Of course
I could never buy it—why, I didn't get fifty pennies in a whole year—and
so my hopes sank to earth again. Then one morning my father told me
to go down town and buy some sugar-fifty cents' worth— Charge it,' he
said, ‘no—wait-here is a half dollar.' So I got the idea of charging the
Seven
sugar anyway, and buying the coveted bottle with the ultramarine blue
label and the golden saying, 'Positive cure for freckles.' Oh how proud
I was of that bottle! I hugged it under my coat all the way home, then
hid it in my inside pocket, and didn't eat any breakfast. No—I was too
thrilled and excited. Then I went to school, scooting down an alley on
the way and stopping before a barn. The hay was strewn around loosely
there it was an old deserted barn, and gave me a chance to be all alone.
So I pulled out the bottle, doused my hand and rubbed my face thoroughly.
I fairly expected the freckles to rattle as they fell. Then I corked the
bottle and hid it beneath the floor, broke out of the barn and scudded along
to school. I was late by this time. All the pupils were at attention when
I arrived, and oh what a laugh they set up! 'Why, Jimmy,' cried the
teacher, 'what do you mean by coming to school in this condition !' 'Why,
what's the matter?' I said. Then she took me out on the back porch to
her mirror and showed me my face. It was as yellow as an Easter egg! Of
course, I had not read the directions. They said rub off immediately with
salt water and part of an egg—the white, I believe. Well, the lovable old

Where He Lived as a Boy
>
lady rubbed my face good and hard to get the stuff off, and in the course of
two or three days all the freckles came off and my skin, tooevery bit of
it! And I haven't had a freckle since, no sir!”
This first teacher, Mrs. Neal, he has described himself.
“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 amiable. She kept school in her little
Eight
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
>

The Little Poet and His Mother
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 some-
times take three or four of us together; and I recall how a playmate and
I, having been admonished into silence, grew deeply interested in watch-
ing a spare old man who sat at a window with its shade drawn down.
Nine
>
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 con-
tent, waited always at the window for his sight to come back to him. And
doubtless it is today, 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 stick she used
as a pointer, and cried over every lick, you will have an idea how much

2015
Present Home on Lockerbie Street
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 inter-
est,-McGuffey's old leather-bound 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 0. Harris,
came to understand me with thorough sympathy, took compassion on my
weaknesses and encouraged me to read the best literature. He understood
Ten
V
66
a
-
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
wanted 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.'
After he left school Riley had so hard a time that he, in mind, turned
back longingly to "the old days,” “the days gone by," "with every day a
For
holiday and life a glad romance.'
hole" with the hurrahing gang, "just too glad for anything"; or he lay
on the bank “knee deep in June" and dreamed and listened to what the
breeze was whispering to the trees and the water was crooning to the
dragon flies. Or he tramped along the old highway, “Out to Old Aunt
Mary's," or took delight in the tootings of “The Old Band,” or heard
the stories “The Raggedy Man” had to tell, or those witch tales of “Little
Orphant Annie's." All he has written about is real. He lived it all him-
self. This is always true of the great writers.
But finally “the days gone by" were gone for sure, and the boy was
a man and had to work. What could he do? He could do everything,
except what was useful or what people would pay for. He could play a
“fiddle" and a guitar, he could sing and act, and write verses and tell
stories. But nobody would pay him for this. Everyone said, “Oh, he's
just an idle no-'count fellow!" That hurt his feelings right when he had
the most need to keep a stout heart.
What had he been doing all these years-just having a good time and
dreaming! Noindeed—the had been thinking things out for himself,
studying nature and observing people, and becoming wise by his own think-
ing. That's what every boy and girl has to learn,—to think things out
for himself—not to learn meaninglessly by rule, but to think all for him-
self. And so Riley wasn't so far behind in the world, after all, nor did
he lack courage.
He had faith that God meant him for some good use
and so he kept on trying to do the best thing he knew how to do, writing
poetry. And one day when he was most discouraged he sent some of his
poems off to Longfellow.
Oh what a glad letter he got in reply, saying, “I think your poems
show the true poetic faculty and insight. Then all the world was changed
for him. He fell to work with a will and wrote and wrote, ever with
more success, until he had enough for a book. Then he printed “The Old
Swimmin-Hole and 'Leven More Poems,” just a paper-backed humble
’'
little book, sold over a newspaper counter,--but it was so good a book that
it sold out entirely and made him eighty-three dollars and twenty cents!
So he tried more and more books, regular books now with stiff cloth covers
and illustrations in thein. They sold and sold and sold, so he just kept
writing more and more, until he has almost a hundred books to his credit.
Many sales and many books—do these make “success''! Some people
are narrow enough to think so. But this is not Riley's success. His is
in the love he has won from everybody. Why does everyone love him so,
why do universities honor him, why did the Academy of Arts and Sciences
give him the gold medal for poetry, why does the governor of our state
single his birthday out for a proclamation ?
Simply because he unselfishly has done the most for our people.
He has awakened the best in our hearts, has made us feel more nobly and
more tenderly,—and that is what we live for, not for wealth nor fame, but
that our souls may grow in love. As Henry van Dyke wrote to him:
Other poets may soar above you,
You keep close to the human heart.
:
Eleven
RILEY LETTERS TO CHILDREN
October 7, 1911.
To the School Children of Indianapolis:
You are conspirators-every one of you, that's what you are; you have con-
spired to inform the general public of my birthday, and I am already so old that I
want to forget all about it. But I will be magnanimous and forgive you, for I know
that your intent is really friendly, and to have such friends as you are makes me
don't care how old I am! In fact it makes me so glad and happy that I feel as
absolutely young and spry as a very schoolboy-even as one of you—and so to all
intents I am.
Therefore let me be with you throughout the long, lovely day, and share your
mingled joys and blessings with your parents and your teachers, and in the words
of little Tim Cratchit: “God bless us, every one."
Ever gratefully and faithfully
Your old friend,
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
October 7, 1912.
To The School Children Generally:
It may be well for you to remember that the day you are about to celebrate
is the birthday of many good men, but if I may be counted the least of these, I will
be utterly content and happy. I can only thank you and your teachers with a full
heart and the fervent hope that the day will prove an equal glory to us all.
To The Very Little Children:
I would say-be simply your own selves, and though even parents, as I some-
times think, do not seem to understand us perfectly, we will be patient with them
and love them no less loyally and very tenderly.
Most truly your hale friend and comrade,
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
August 30, 1912.
Dear Elizabeth Page:
You have sent me a mighty good letter, and I thank you heartily. I receive
a great number of letters, mostly written by grown-up people, and it is really sur-
prising how uninteresting they can be.
Give me a letter any time from the Elizabeth Pages of this world. What you
say in appreciation of your "Daddy" goes spang to the spot. That is right, bet on
your “Daddy" above all other men however bright they shine in the spotlight of
our gubernatorial halls. And the dog James Whitcomb Riley Page at once romps
into my affections. As you say, you “hope he will be a smart dog”, and if he is not
you “will change his name to Edgar Allen Poe." I agree with you, as I, too, dislike
Poe so much that I am glad he is not here to be embarrassed thereby.
Thank you very much also for liking my books, and always have your "Daddy"
-my friend—to interpret them to you.
By the way, though, you must spell Allan with an a, as Mr. Poe was very touchy
on that point.
As ever and always your old friend,
JAMES POPCORN RILEY.
For the Very Excellent and Exacting Critic, Little Miss Mabel Wessels:
One time a little girl she got her Ma to write and tell
A Pote-ry Man she like his poems all most amazin' well!
An' nen the Pote-ry Man he said—“It is so glad I am
I'm 'bliged to write that Little Girl an' tell her "Thanky-ma'am.''
Very truly your old Hoosier friend,
April 10, 1897.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
Twelve
February 5, 1896.
JAMES L. MURRAY—
Dear little boy-No-sir-ee! I couldn't write verses when I was nine years old
like you. But, as you do, I could get verses “by heart,” for speeches at School-
only I always got pale and sick and faint when I tried to speak 'em-and my chin
wobbled, and my throat hurt, and then I broke clean down and—cried. Oughtn't
I been ashamed of myself? I bet you ain't goin' to cry—in the Second Room of the
A Grade!
I was sorry to hear your mother died when you were only one year old. My
mother is dead, too; and so I wouldn't be surprised if your mother and my mother
were together right now, and know each other, and are the best friends in their
World, just as you and I are in this. My best respects to your good father and
teachers all.
Ever your friend,
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
9

=
Thish-heris a present book I sand
To Rilsy Matters - from his frisud,
.
You out! I cause litter Riley he
Wez bless his heart! named after
muse.
c
Jours Truly and leringly,
James Whitenet Riley
Thirteen
TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
I have read (your poems) with great pleasure, and think they show the
true poetic faculty and insight.-Earliest encouragement, from Henry W.
Longfellow.
Today, in presenting Mr. Riley to you, I can say to you of my own
knowledge, that you are to have the pleasure of listening to the voice of a
true poet.-James Russell Lowell.
James Whitcomb Riley is nothing short of a born poet and a veritable
genius.
He gets down into the heart of a man, and in a most telling way,
too,—this delineator of lowly humanity, who sings with so much fervor,
pathos, humor and grace, and who has done things, perhaps, which will
outlast the more laborious work of some of the older and more pretentious
poets.—Oliver Wendell Homes.
The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of
Riley's old farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result is a performance
which is thoroughly charming and delicious. This is art-and fine and
beautiful, and only a master can compass it.—Mark Twain.
No poet has shown such a passion for the homely and humble things of
life and has dared to portray them with such unshrinking fidelity, such
fond and unpatronizing tenderness. No one else has conceived so truly and
so kindly of children or has been able to tell us so sweetly what they are.
-William Dean Howells.
It's ho-my-Riley ! kase all thu my dreams
You er allers a-skippin' dat Jim-along-Jeems
Wid Jin-along-Joe twel it natchally seems
You er here sho 'nough, whar you oughter be,
A-bangin' aroun' an' a-loafin' wid me
An' I wish you wuz-Yes-sir-ree !--Joel Chandler Harris.
Every one knows where is Lockerbie Street,
For there a poet has lived and sung,
Wise as an angel, glad as a bird,
Fearless and fond in every word,
All his life. And if you would know
The secret of joy and the cure of woe, -
How to be gentle and brave and sweet,-
Ask you way to Lockerbie Street.--Bliss Carman.
'Twas you sang first the yet unsung
Faith of a people brave and young
To whose rude speech a wild tang clung,
In clean earth born,-
The variant Saxon of our tongue
You did not scorn !-Meredith Nicholson.
I
This is the reason why all men love you,
Remember your songs and forget your art:
Other poets may soar above you-
You keep close to the human heart.--Henry van Dyke.
Your trail runs to the westward,
But since I have read your verses
And mine to my own place;
'Tis easy to guess the rest,-
There is water between our lodges,
Because in the hearts of the children
And I have not seen your face.
There is neither East nor West.
-Rudyard Kipling.
Fourteen
Dedicated to
Mrs. Kortis Black,
There Little Girl; Don't Cry.
(Riley.)
CLARENCE FORSYTH.
Qp. 8. N.
Andante.
There! little girl;
don't
Recitando
cryl
They have
bro-ken your dou,
know;
And your tea - set blue, And your play-bouse, too, Are
.
135 2016
things of the long
a • go;
But child isb trou - bles will
1
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do
o.
gli
8000
pass by. There! lit - tle girl,
don't cry!
.
சிங்
483
International gerighet
Copyright, NCM, Welschner & Son.
There! little girl ; don't cry!
They have broken your slate, I know,
And the glad, wild ways
Of your school-girl days
Are things of the long ago;
But life and love will soon come by:-
There ! little girl; don't cry!
There! little girl ; don't cry!
They have broken your heart, I know ;
And the rainbow gleams
Of your youthful dreams
Are things of the long ago;
But Heaven holds all for which you
sigh.-
There! little girl ; don't cry!
Used by special permission of Gamble Hinged Music Co. and
Mr. Clarence Forsyth. Mr. Forsyth was a beloved Hoosier artist.
Fifteen


A Song
Sixteen
Prom The Lockerbre Book
By Jam Whitcomb Riley
Copyright 1911
Used by special pereiston of the publisher,
The Bobbs - Merrill Company,
Music by
FRITZ KRULL
Allegretto
The
Texato
leauto
(
219
There is ev . er
2
song some . where, my dear; There is
sun-shine showers across the grain, And the blue bird trills in the
or -
chardtree; And
TRE
P
len
辑
​inf grasfoso
ev - er
a some - thing sings al-way: There's the
song of the lark when the
in and out, when the caves drip rain, The swal-lows are twitter-ing cease-less-ly.
len.
BE
skies are clear, And the song of the thrush when the
skics
are gray
There is
Copyright 1913 by Prits Kroll,
. Loot




-
5
4202
is here, And the crick-et chirreps the whole night through!
ba
• e a song
that our hearts
may hear. There is ev.
ev
sonie
er a song
The buds may blow, and the
ten.
ten
Pa tempo
Seventeen
A Seeg
ever a song somewhere, my dear, Be the
skies a - bore or dark or fais, There is
rob. in pipes when the sun
cola coce
PP n2
where,
my dear!
There is
ev - er a song
some - where!
fruit way grow Ardite au-turn leaves drop crisp and sere, But whether the sun,ertheraidorsnow.There is
म
tex.
There is
Prit
ev - et a seng soine-where, my dear.
ever a song some-where, my dear; In the midnight black or the mid-day blue; The
By special permission of Frits Krul..
Mr. Krull is the Indianapolis man who has set to music many of Mr. Riey's favorite poems


SELECTIONS CHILDREN LOVE
All poems here included used by special permission of the Bobbs. Merrill Co.
- from the Biographical Edition, Copyrighi, 1913.
A BOY'S MOTHER
My mother she's so good to me,
Her cryin'.--Nen I cry; an nen
Ef I was good as I could be,
We both cry an' be good again.
I couldn't be as good—no, sir!-
Can't any boy be good as her!
She loves me when she cuts an' sews
My little cloak an' Sund'y clothes ;
She loves me when I'm glad er sad;
An' when my Pa comes home to tea,
She loves me when I'm good er bad;
She loves him most as much as me.
An', what's a funniest thing, she says
She loves me when she punishes.
She laughs an' tells him all I said,
An' grabs me up an' pats my head;
I don't like her to punish me.-
An' I hug her, an' hug my Pa
That don't hurt,-but it hurts to see An' love him purt' nigh as much as Ma.
THE RAGGEDY MAN
O the Raggedy Man! He works for Pa; An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw! Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an'
He comes our house every day,
Elves,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swal-
hay;
lers the’rselves!
An' he opens the shed-an' we all ist An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-
laugh
lot,
When he drives out our little old He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks
wobble-ly calf;
is got,
An' nen-ef our hired girl says he 'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an'
can-
can
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.- Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!
Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man? Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man:
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man?
W’y, The Raggedy Man--he's ist so
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
good,
The Raggedy Man-one time, when he
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the
Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,
wood;
Says "When you're big like your Pa is,
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
Air you go' to keep a fine store like
An' does most things 'at boy8 can't
bis-
do.-
An' be a rich merchunt-an' wear fine
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
clothes ?
An' shooked a' apple down fer me
Er what air you go' to be, goodness
An' 'nother'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann-
knows?"
An' 'nother'n', too, fer The Raggedy
An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,
Man.-
An' I says “'M go' to be a Raggedy
Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?
Man!-
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy
An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most
Man!"
rhymes,
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
Eighteen
GRIGGSBY'S STATION
Pap's got his pattent-right, and rich as
all creation ;
But where's the peace and comfort
that we all had before?
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's
Station-
Back where we ust to be so happy
and so pore!
I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones
girls is makin’;
And I want to pester Laury 'bout
their freckled hired hand,
And joke her 'bout the widower she
come purt' night a-takin',
Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in
time to save his land.
The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jes'
a mortal pity
To see us in this great big house,
with cyarpets on the stairs,
And the pump right in the kitchen!
And the city! city! city!-
And nothin' but the city all around
us ever'-wheres !
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's
Station-
Back where they's nothin' aggervat-
in' any more,
Shet away safe in the woods around
the old location-
Back where we ust to be so happy
and so pore!
Climb clean above the roof and look
from the steeple,
And never see a robin, nor a beech or
ellum tree!
And right here in ear-shot of at least
a thousan' people,
And none that neighbors with us or
we want to go and see!
I want to see Marindy and he'p her
with her sewin',
And hear her talk so lovin' of her
man that's dead and gone,
And stand up with Emanuel to show
me how he's growin',
And smile as I have saw her 'fore
she putt her mournin' on.
a-
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's
Station-
Back where the latch-string's
hangin' from the door,
And ever neighbor round the place is
dear as a relation-
Back where we ust to be so happy
and so pore!
And I want to see the Samples, on the
old lower eighty,
Where John, our oldest boy, he was
tuk and burried for
His own sake and Katy's,—and I want
to cry with Katy
As she reads all his letters over,
writ from The War.
I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole
kit-and-bilin',
A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to
stay the Sunday through ;
And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their
son-in-law's and pilin'
Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they
ust to do!
What's in all this grand life and high
situation,
And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-
bloomin' at the door?-
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's
Station-
Back where we ust to be so happy
and so pore!
THE PRAYER PERFECT
Dear Lord! kind Lord !
Bring unto the sorrowing
Gracious Lord! I pray
All release from pain;
Thou wilt look on all I love
Let the lips of laughter
Tenderly to-day!
Overflow again ;
Weed their hearts of weariness;
And with all the needy
Scatter every care
O divide, I pray,
Down a wake of angel-wings
This vast treasure of content
Winnowing the air.
That is mine to-day!
Nineteen
so hot-
ALMOST BEYOND ENDURANCE
I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more! An' Herbert he ist laught at me!
I'm got ear-ache, an' Ma can't make
An' my fi'-cents
It quit a-tall;
It sticked in my tin bank, an' I ist tore
An' Carlo bite my rubber-ball
Purt' nigh my thumbnail off, a-tryin'
An' puncture it; an' Sis she take
to git
An' poke' my knife down through the It out—nen smash it!-An' it's in
stable-floor
there yit!
An' loozed it-blame it all!
But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no
But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no
more!
more!
00! I'm so wickud !-An' my breath's
An' Aunt Mame wrote she's comin', an'
she can't-
Ist like I run an' don't res' none
Folks is come there!-An' I don't
But ist run on when I ought to not;
Yes, an' my chin
She is my aunt!
An' lips's all warpy, an' teeth's so
An' my eyes stings; an' I'm
fast,
Ist coughin' all the time,
An' 's a place in my throat I can't
An' hurts me so; an' where my side's
swaller past-
An' they all hurt so!-
Grampa felt where, an' he
An' oh, my-oh!
Says "Mayby it's pleurasy !"
I'm a-startin' ag'in-
But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no
I'm a-startin' ag'in, but I won't, fer
more!
shore !
An' I clumbed up an' nen falled off the I ist ain't goin' to cry no more, no more!
fence,
care
So sore
THE OLD MAN AND JIM
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Old man never had much to say-
'Ceptin' to Jim,-
And Jim was the wildest boy he had-
And the old man jes' wrapped up in
him!
Never heerd him speak but once
Er twice in my life,-and first time
was
Then the army broke out, and Jim he
went,
The old man backin' him, fer three
months;
And all 'at I heerd the old man say
Was, jes' as we turned to start away,-
"Well, good-by, Jim:
Take keer of yourse'f !”
Never was nothin' about the farm
Disting'ished Jim;
Neighbors all ust to wonder why
The old man 'peared wrapped up in
him;
But when Cap. Biggler he writ bark
'At Jim was the bravest boy we had
In the whole dern rigiment, white er
black,
And his fightin' good as his farnin'
bad-
'At he had led, with a bullet clean
Bored through his thigh, and carried
the flag
Through the bloodiest battle your ever
seen, -
The old man wound up a letter to him
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said: “Tell
Jim Good-by,
And take keer of hisse'f!"
'Peared-like, he was more satisfied
Jes' lookin' at Jim
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see?
'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in
him !
And over and over I mind the day
The old man come and stood round in
the way
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim-
And down at the deepot a-heerin' him
say,
Jim come home jes' long enough
To take the whim
'At he'd like to go back in the calvery--
Twenty
And the old man jes' wrapped up in
him !
Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore,
Guessed he'd tackle her three years
more.
And the old man give him a colt he'd
raised,
And follered him over to Camp Ben
Wade,
And laid around fer a week er so,
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade
Tel finally he rid away,
And last he heerd was the old man
say,
"Well, good-by, Jim :
Take keer of yourse f!"
And socked it home to the boys in
gray,
As they scooted fer timber, and on and
on-
Jim a lieutenant and one arm gone,
And the old man's words in his mind
all day,
"Well, good-by, Jim :
Take keer of yourse'f!"
Tuk the papers, the old man did,
A-watchin' fer Jim-
Fully believin' he'd make his mark
Some way-jes' wrapped up in
him :-
And many a time the word 'u'd come
"At stirred him up like the tap of a
drum-
At Petersburg, fer instunce, where
Jim rid right into their cannons there,
And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other
way,
Think of a private, now, perhaps,
We'll say like Jim,
'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-
straps-
And the old man jes' wrapped up in
him!
Think of him with the war plum'
through,
And the glorious old Red-White-and-
Blue
A-laughin' the news down over Jim,
And the old man, bendin' over him-
The surgeon turnin' away with tears
'At hadn't leaked fer years and years,
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to
His father's, the old voice in his
ears,-
"Well, good-by, Jim :
Take keer of yourse'f!'
caress
THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare It made me love myself, as I leaped to
the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was lay- My shadder smilin' up at me with sich
in half asleep,
tenderness.
And the gurgle of the worter round But them days is past and gone, and
the drift jest below
old Time's tuck his toll
Sounded like the laugh of something From the old man come back to the
we onc't ust to know
old swimmin’-hole.
Before we could remember anything
but the eyes
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the
Of the angels lookin' out as we left
long, lazy days
Paradise ;
When the humdrum of school made so
But the merry days of youth is beyond
many run-a-ways,
our controle,
How pleasant was the jurney down
And it's hard to part ferever with the
the old dusty lane,
old swimmin'-hole.
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was
all printed so plane
Oh! the old swimmin'-bole! In the You could tell by the dent of the heel
happy days of yore,
and the sole
When I ust to lean above it on the old They was lots o' fun on hands at the
sickamore,
old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm But the lost joys is past! Let your
sunny tide
tears in sorrow roll
That gazed back at me so gay and Like the rain that ust to dapple up the
glorified,
old swimmin'-hole.
Twenty-one
Thare the bullrushes growed, and the
cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell
over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber
and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the rip-
ples that rolled ;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy
wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out
of the sky,
wowned apple-blossom in the
breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd fer the
old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I
last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the
change in my face ;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses
the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and
fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the
trees ust to be
But never again will theyr shade shel-
ter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip
to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old
swimmin'-hole.
Or a
Ef you
LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE
Little Orphant Annie's come to our An' one time a little girl 'ud allus
house to stay,
laugh an' grin,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her
brush the crumbs away,
blood-an-kin;
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' An' wunst, when they was "company,"
dust the hearth, an' sweep,
an' ole folks wuz there,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an
an earn her board-an'-keep;
said she didn't care!
An' all us other childern, when sup- An' thist as she kicked her heels, an'
per-things is done,
turn't to run an' hide,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has They wuz two great big Black Things
the mostest fun
a-standin' by her side,
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie An' they snatched her through the
tells about,
ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
about!
Ef you
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Don't
Watch
Don't
Out!
Watch
Out!
Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't An' little Orphant Annie says, when
say his prayers, —
the blaze is blue,
An' when he went to bed at night, away An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the
up-stairs,
wind goes w00-00!
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his An' you hear the crickets quit, an the
Daddy heerd him bawl,
moon is gray,
An' when they turn't the kiyvers down, An' the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all
he wuzn't there at all!
squenched away,-
An' they seeked him in the rafter- You better mind yer parents, an yer
room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
teachurs fond an' dear,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' An' churish them 'at loves you, an dry
ever'wheres, I guess ;
the orphant's tear,
But all they ever found wuz thist his An' he'p the pore an' needy ones at
pants an' roundabout :-
clusters all about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Don't
Watch
Watch
Out!
Out!
Ef you
Twenty-two
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUMPKIN
When the frost is on the punkin and The husky, rusty russel of the tossels
the fodder's in the shock,
of the corn.
And you hear the kyouck and gobble And the raspin' of the tangled leaves,
of the struttin' turkey-cock,
as golden as the morn;
And the clackin' of the guineys, and The stubble in the furries-kindo' lone-
the cluckin' of the hens,
some-like, but still
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tip- A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns
toes on the fence;
they growed to fill;
0, it's then's the times a feller is 1. The strawstack in the medder, and the
feelin' at his best,
reaper in the shed :
With the risin' sun to greet him from The hosses in theyr stalls below—the
a night of peaceful rest,
clover overhead :-
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the
and goes out to feed the stock,
tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and When the frost is on the punkin and
the fodder's in the shock.
the fodder's in the shock!
They's something kindo' harty-like Then your apples all is gethered, and
about the atmusfere
the ones a feller keeps
When the heat of summer's over and Is poured around the celler-floor in red
the coolin' fall is here
and yaller heaps :
Of course we miss the flowers, and the And your cider-makin*'s over, and
blossums on the trees,
your wimmern-folks is through
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds With their mince and apple-butter, and
and buzzin' of the bees;
theyr souse and saussage, too!
But the air's so appetizin'; and the I don't know how to tell it-but ef sich
landscape through the haze
a thing could be
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the As the Angels wantin' boa rdin', and
airly autumn days
they'd call around on me--
Is a pictur' that no painter has the I'd want to 'commodate 'em-all the
colorin' to mock-
whole-indurin' flock-
When the frost is on the punkin and
When the frost is on the punkin and
the fodder's in the shock.
the fodder's in the shock!
GRANNY
Granny's come to our house,
Bet she knows a hunderd !-
And ho! my lawzy-daisy !
Bob's the one fer “Whittington,"
All the childern round the place
And “Golden Locks" fer Fanny !
Is ist a-runnin' crazy!
Hear 'em laugh and clap their hands,
Fetched a cake fer little Jake,
Listenin' at Granny!
And fetched a pie fer Nanny,
"Jack the Giant-Killer" 's good;
And fetched a pear fer all the pack
And "Bean-Stalk" 's another!-
That runs to kiss their Granny !
So's the one of “Cinderell'
And her old godmother;-
Lucy Ellen's in her lap,
That-un's best of all the rest-
And Wade and Silas Walker
Bestest one of any, -
Both's a ridin' on her foot,
Where the mices scampers home
And 'Pollos on the rocker;
Like we runs to Granny!
And Marthy's twins, from Aunt Ma-
rinn's,
Granny's come to our house,
And little Orphant Annie,
Ho! my lawzy-daisy !
All's a-eatin' gingerbread
All the children round the place
Is ist a-runnin' crazy!
And giggle-un at Granny!
Fetched a cake fer little Jake,
Tells us all the fairy tales
And fetched a pie fer Nanny,
Ever thought er wundered-
And fetched a pear fer all the pack
And 'bundance o' other stories-
That runs to kiss their Granny !
Twenty-three
SUGGESTIVE PROGRAMS FOR OBSERVANCE OF RILEY DAY
ܕ ܕ
Program
1. Song by the school...
. America
2. Short talk by the teacher on Mr. Riley's Life and Work. (A
portrait of Mr. Riley would add to the interest of the
program.)
3. Responsive reading by the school. (Pupil recites a stanza; the
school responds with the last line.)
Suitable poems:
* Let Something Good Be Said."
"If I Knew What Poets Know.”
* The Name of Old Glory.”
*.1 Monument for the Soldiers.” (Use in Parts.)
4. Recitation (selected from list)
Riley
5. Song by the school, " A Song".
. Music by Fritz Krull
6. Recitation (in costume), "The Raggedy Man.'
7. Selections from poems read by the teacher.
(a) In Grade One teacher read a few lines from “The
Brook Song."
(b) In Grades Two and Three teacher may read to the
pupils :
Parts of “The Brook Song."
“The Yellow Bird.
"The Bear Story.
(c) In Grade Three pupils may appreciate “When the
Frost is on the Pumpkin” if read by the teacher.
8. Recitation by small children..
“The Circus Day Parade"
Have children paint the pictures made by the words in the
above poem.
Show the pictures to the audience as
they recite.
9. Song by the school, “On the Banks of the Wabash”.
ܕ ܕ
9
Dresser
Program
1. Song by the school....
“Indiana”
2. Recitation, “The Prayer Perfect",
.. Riley
3. A brief sketch of Mr. Riley, by a member of the school board
or the school trustee.
4. Vocal solo, “A Life Lesson
Music by Clarence Forsythe
5. Recitation (selected from list).
Riley
6. Quotations by class. (Nature study selections.)
7. A brief explanation of the possible origin and meaning of
“Hoosier’’ and a little talk on dialect, its poetry and charm
and what it really is. (Examples of Mr. Riley's dialect
poetry may be read by the teacher.)
Selection to be made from the following:
1. “Little Orphant Annie."
2. “When the Frost is on the Pumpkin.'
3. “The Old Man and Jim."
4. “Griggsby's Station."
8. Recitation selected from list)
Riley
9. Song by the school.....
. America
6
6
Twenty-four

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all

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
3 9015 06729 2931
PRESS OF
WM. B. BURFORD
INDIANAPOLIS