Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! Whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of Youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days
When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up 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 shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like, the old swimmin'-hole.
Though Mr. Riley is no longer with us, he still has the same big place
in our hearts. Why do we love him so? Is it not because he was able to
reach our hearts as few have done; because he was able in all his
poems to speak the word that we needed most?
James Whitcomb Riley was born at Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His
father was a lawyer and farmer combined. While he did the legal work
of the village, he also owned a farm at the edge of town. As he was a
good speaker he was in constant demand in that part of the state to
speak on all kinds of occasions. Generally, on these trips, he took
young James along; thus it was that the lad acquired a desire to
travel that it took years of his after life to satisfy.
It was from his mother that James received his talent for writing
poetry. Though never a poet, she was exceedingly apt, as were all her
people, in writing rhymes. The beautiful tributes that Riley, later in
life, paid his mother show that she always understood and helped
him.
Greenfield, during the boyhood days of Riley, was not the kind of
town we think of as producing poets. There were no mountains to
kindle the imagination, and no babbling brooks to encourage
meditation. In every direction were broad stretches of level land
largely covered with forests that still remained untouched. Between
these forest stretches were patches of land that were cultivated by
hand; for at that time there was but little farm machinery. The
greatest single task of the people was to clear the forests and bring
the soil under cultivation. Greenfield was, therefore, in part an
agricultural town and in part a lumber town. Like most small towns,
it was slow-moving and uninteresting. The scenes most frequented were
the loafing places.
As there was very little in Greenfield for a lad to do, James' father
very often pressed him into service planting and cultivating corn, but
he never liked it. While at first we are inclined to regret this, we
wonder, had farm life appealed to him, whether he would have made a
great poet.
Years later in speaking of his lack of experience in real farm life
Mr. Riley says: "Sometimes some real country boy gives me the round
turn on some farm points. For instance, here comes one slipping up to
me, 'You never lived on a farm,' he says. 'Why not'? says I. 'Well,'
he says, 'a turkey-cock _gobbles_, but he doesn't _ky-ouck_ as your
poetry says.' He has me right there. It's the turkey-hen that
_ky-oucks_. 'Well, you'll never hear another turkey-cock of mine
_ky-ouckin_,' says I. But generally I hit on the right symbols. I get
the frost on the pumpkin and the fodder in the shock; and I see the
frost on the old axe they split the pumpkins with for feed, and I get
the smell of the fodder and the cattle, so that it brings up the right
picture in the mind of the reader."
James never enjoyed his earlier experiences in school. When he should
have been studying his history and arithmetic lessons he busied
himself with writing rhymes. Later in life he was very sorry that he
had not persevered in his regular school work. There were some things
in school, however, that he did exceptionally well. Few boys in that
part of the state could recite poetry as well as he, and he was always
called on to speak pieces at the school entertainments. Though some of
his teachers were inclined to neglect him, he had one teacher who
understood him and took a great interest in him. The name of this
teacher was Mr. Lee O. Harris, and Mr. Riley never tired of saying
good things about him. The fact that Mr. Harris loved literature and
had some poetic ability of his own made it possible for him to see in
James powers that others did not see, and to encourage him when others
discouraged him.
After leaving school James had some experiences that were so unusual
and yet so very interesting that I am sure we should be delighted to
have him, in his own delightful manner, tell us about them.
"I tried to read law with my father, but I didn't seem to get
anywhere. Forgot as diligently as I read; so what was the use. I had
learned the sign-painter's trade, but it was hardly what I wanted to
do always, and my health was bad--very bad.
"A doctor here in Greenfield advised me to travel. But how in the
world was I to travel without money. It was just at this time that the
patent-medicine man came along. He needed a man, and I argued this
way: 'This man is a doctor, and if I must travel, better travel with a
doctor.' He had a fine team and a nice looking lot of fellows with
him; so I plucked up courage to ask if I couldn't go along and paint
his advertisements for him.
"I rode out of town without saying goodbye to anyone, and though my
patron wasn't a doctor with a diploma, as I found out, he was a mighty
fine man, and kind to his horses, which was a recommendation. He was a
man of good habits, and the whole company was made up of good straight
boys.
"My experience with him put an idea into my head-- a business idea,
for a wonder--and the next year I went down to Anderson and went into
partnership with a young fellow to travel. We organized a scheme of
advertising with paint, and we called our business 'The Graphic
Company.' We had five or six young fellows, all musicians, as well as
handy painters, and we used to capture the towns with our music. One
fellow could whistle like a nightingale, another sang like an angel,
and another played the banjo. I scuffled with the violin and guitar.
"Our only dissipation was clothes. We dressed loud. You could hear our
clothes an incalculable distance. We had an idea it helped business.
Our plan was to take one firm of each business in town, painting its
advertisement on every road leading to town.
"You've heard the story about my traveling all over the state as a
blind sign-painter? Well, that started this way: One day we were in a
small town, and a great crowd was watching us in breathless wonder and
curiosity; and one of our party said; 'Riley, let me introduce you as
a blind sign-painter.' So just for the mischief I put on a crazy look
in the eyes, and pretended to be blind. They led me carefully to the
ladder, and handed me my brush and paints. It was great fun. I'd hear
them saying as I worked, 'That feller ain't blind.' 'Yes he is; see
his eyes.' 'No, he ain't, I tell you; he's playin' off.' 'I tell you
he _is_ blind. Didn't you see him fall over a box and spill all his
paints?'
"Now, that's all there was to it. I was a blind sign-painter one day
and forgot it the next. We were all boys, and jokers, naturally
enough, but not lawless. All were good fellows, all had nice homes and
good people."
When he had spent four years with "The Graphic Company" he accepted a
position as reporter for a paper published at Anderson, Indiana. In
addition to his reporting work he wrote many short poems in the
Hoosier dialect that took well. So successful was his work on this
paper that Judge Martindale of the Indianapolis Journal offered him a
position on that paper. About the first thing he now did was to write
a series of Benjamin F. Johnson poems. In speaking of this series Mr.
Riley said, "These all appeared with editorial comment, as if they
came from an old Hoosier farmer of Boone County. They were so well
received that I gathered them together in a little parchment volume,
which I called, 'The Old Swimmin'-Hole and 'Leven More Poems', my
first book."
This book met with immediate favor. Speakers from east to west quoted
from it. All wanted to know who the author really was. Modest as Mr.
Riley was, he had to confess that he had written the book. Other books
followed in close succession until when he died he had written
forty-two volumes. But people were not satisfied with reading his
books merely, they wanted to see and hear him. He, therefore, began in
a modest way to read his poems before audiences in his native state.
So delighted were these audiences, for he was a charming reader as
well as a capable writer, that urgent calls came from every state in
the Union to come and read for them. For a number of years he traveled
widely and appeared before thousands of audiences, but this kind of
life never appealed to him.
Though he never married, Mr. Riley was always fond of the quiet of a
modest home. Accordingly, the closing years of his life were spent in
semi-retirement in his cozy home on Lockerbie Street, Indianapolis.