James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley

1849–1916 · lived 66 years -- --

James Whitcomb Riley was an American poet and author, best known for his dialect verse that celebrated rural life in Indiana. His poems often captured the nostalgia and simplicity of childhood, small-town America, and the common folk. Riley's warm, humorous, and often sentimental style made him immensely popular in his time, earning him the nickname "The Hoosier Poet." His works, such as "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man," remain beloved for their accessible language and evocative portrayals of American folklore and rural experiences.

n. 1849-10-07, Greenfield · m. 1916-07-22, Indianápolis

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Writin' Back To The Home-Folks

Writin' Back To The Home-Folks

My dear old friends--It jes beats all,
The way you write a letter
So's ever' _last_ line beats the _first_,
And ever' _next_-un's better!-W'y,
ever' fool-thing you putt down
You make so inte_rest_in',
A feller, readin' of 'em all,
Can't tell which is the _best_-un.


It's all so comfortin' and good,
'Pears-like I almost _hear_ ye
And git more sociabler, you know,
And hitch my cheer up near ye
And jes smile on ye like the sun
Acrosst the whole per-rairies
In Aprile when the thaw's begun
And country couples marries.


It's all so good-old-fashioned like
To _talk_ jes like we're _thinkin'_,
Without no hidin' back o' fans
And giggle-un and winkin',
Ner sizin' how each-other's dressed--
Like some is allus doin',-'_
Is_ Marthy Ellen's basque ben _turned_
Er shore-enough a new-un!'--


Er 'ef Steve's city-friend haint jes
'A _lee_tle kindo'-sorto''--
Er 'wears them-air blame eye-glasses
Jes 'cause he hadn't ort to?'
And so straight on, _dad-libitum_,
Tel all of us feels, _some_way,
Jes like our 'comp'ny' wuz the best
When we git up to come 'way!


That's why I like _old_ friends like you,--
Jes 'cause you're so _abidin'_.--
Ef I was built to live '_fer keeps_,'
My principul residin'
Would be amongst the folks 'at kep'
Me allus _thinkin'_ of 'em,
And sorto' eechin' all the time
To tell 'em how I love 'em.--


Sich folks, you know, I jes love so
I wouldn't live without 'em,
Er couldn't even drap asleep
But what I _dreamp'_ about 'em,--
And ef we minded God, I guess
We'd _all_ love one-another
Jes like one fam'bly,--me and Pap



And Madaline and Mother.
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Bio

Identification and basic context

James Whitcomb Riley was an American poet, author, and lecturer. He is celebrated as "The Hoosier Poet" for his distinctive dialect verse that vividly depicted rural life in Indiana and the American Midwest. His writings often evoked a sense of nostalgia for childhood, simplicity, and the everyday lives of common people. Riley's national fame and accessibility made him one of the most popular literary figures of his era.

Childhood and education

Riley was born and raised in Greenfield, Indiana. His father was a lawyer who encouraged his son's literary inclinations. Riley's formal education was limited; he attended public school but left before graduating. He was largely self-taught, developing a love for literature, poetry, and popular entertainment. His childhood experiences in rural Indiana, filled with local folklore, storytelling, and the rhythms of small-town life, profoundly shaped his later literary output.

Literary trajectory

Riley began his career in journalism, working for various newspapers in Indiana. He also experimented with writing songs and poems, often publishing them under pseudonyms. His breakthrough came with the serialization of "The Old Swimmin' Hole" in 1883, a poem written in Hoosier dialect that resonated with readers. This success led to the publication of his first collection, "The Old Swimmin' Hole and Other Poems" (1883), which established his reputation. He went on to publish numerous collections of poetry and prose, becoming a nationally recognized literary figure.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Riley's most famous works include "The Raggedy Man," "Little Orphant Annie," "When the Frost Is on the Punkin," and "A Country Boy." His dominant themes revolve around rural life, childhood innocence, nostalgia for the past, friendship, and the simple virtues of ordinary people. His style is characterized by its use of Hoosier dialect, colloquial language, and a warm, humorous, and often sentimental tone. He employed simple rhyme schemes and rhythmic patterns, making his poetry accessible and memorable. His poetic voice is typically that of a genial observer, sharing fond memories and gentle observations about his subjects.

Cultural and historical context

Riley's work emerged during a period of significant change in America, as the nation transitioned from an agrarian society to an industrial one. His poems tapped into a widespread sentimentality and nostalgia for the perceived simpler times of rural life, which were rapidly disappearing. He was part of a broader literary trend that celebrated regionalism and local color in American literature. His popularity reflected a national desire to connect with its agrarian roots and the everyday experiences of its citizens.

Personal life

Riley never married and lived a relatively private life, though he was a popular public figure. He suffered from ill health for much of his adult life, including a stroke that affected his mobility, but he continued to write and lecture. His deep affection for children and his memories of his own childhood were central to his creative inspiration. He maintained close ties to his family and friends in Indiana throughout his career.

Recognition and reception

James Whitcomb Riley achieved immense popularity during his lifetime. He was celebrated across the United States, hailed as a national treasure. His readings were often standing-room-only events, and his books sold exceptionally well. He received numerous honors and accolades, solidifying his status as one of America's most beloved poets. His accessible style and relatable themes ensured a broad appeal that transcended literary circles.

Influences and legacy

Riley was influenced by earlier American poets who celebrated rural life and folklore, as well as by popular song forms. His legacy lies in his enduring portrayal of Hoosier life and his contribution to American regionalist literature. He helped popularize the use of vernacular dialect in poetry, making it more relatable to a wider audience. While his work is sometimes seen as overly sentimental by modern critics, its charm and historical value continue to be recognized, and he remains a significant figure in the history of American poetry.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critics often analyze Riley's work for its nostalgic portrayal of rural America and its use of dialect. Some view his sentimentality as a way to explore universal themes of childhood and memory, while others find it to be a retreat from the complexities of modern life. His celebration of "simple folk" can be interpreted as both an affirmation of democratic ideals and a romanticized, perhaps overly idealized, depiction of rural existence.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Riley was known for his affable personality and his engaging public readings. He was an avid collector of books and manuscripts. Despite his fame, he often expressed a desire for more serious literary recognition, though his talent for popular verse was undeniable. He was also known for his interest in spiritualism.

Death and memory

James Whitcomb Riley died in Indianapolis in 1916. His death was mourned by a nation that had embraced him as a beloved literary son. His home in Greenfield is preserved as a museum, and he is remembered as "The Hoosier Poet" whose words captured the heart and spirit of Indiana.

Poems

225

The Merman

The Merman

I

Who would be
A merman gay,
Singing alone,
Sitting alone,
With a mermaid's knee,
For instance--hey--
For a throne?


II


I would be a merman gay;
I would sit and sing the whole day long;
I would fill my lungs with the strongest brine,
And squirt it up in a spray of song,
And soak my head in my liquid voice;
I'd curl my tail in curves divine,
And let each curve in a kink rejoice.
I'd tackle the mermaids under the sea,
And yank 'em around till they yanked me,
Sportively, sportively;
And then we would wiggle away, away,
To the pea-green groves on the coast of day,
Chasing each other sportively.


III


There would be neither moon nor star;
But the waves would twang like a wet guitar
Low thunder and thrum in the darkness grum--
Neither moon nor star;
We would shriek aloud in the dismal dales--
Shriek at each other and squawk and squeal,
"All night!" rakishly, rakishly;
They would pelt me with oysters and wiggletails,
Laughing and clapping their hands at me,
"All night!" prankishly, prankishly;
But I would toss them back in mine,
Lobsters and turtles of quaint design;
Then leaping out in an abrupt way,
I'd snatch them bald in my devilish glee,
And skip away when they snatched at me,
Fiendishly, fiendishly.
O, what a jolly life I'd lead,
Ah, what a "bang-up" life indeed!
Soft are the mermaids under the sea--
We would live merrily, merrily.
288

The Little Town O' Tailholt

The Little Town O' Tailholt

You kin boast about yer cities, and their stiddy growth and size,
And brag about yer County-seats, and business enterprise,
And railroads, and factories, and all sich foolery--
But the little Town o' Tailholt is big enough fer me!


You kin harp about yer churches, with their steeples in the clouds,
And gas about yer graded streets, and blow about yer crowds;
You kin talk about yer 'theaters,' and all you've got to see--
But the little Town o' Tailholt is show enough fer me!


They hain't no style in our town-- hit's little-like and small--
They hain't no 'churches,' nuther--, jes' the meetin' house is all;
They's no sidewalks, to speak of-- but the highway's allus free,
And the little Town o' Tailholt is wide enough fer me!


Some find it discommodin'-like, I'm willin' to admit,
To hev but one post-office, and a womern keepin' hit,
And the drug-store, and shoe-shop, and grocery, all three--
But the little Town o' Tailholt is handy 'nough fer me!


You kin smile and turn yer nose up, and joke and hev yer fun,
And laugh and holler 'Tail-holts is better holts'n none!
Ef the city suits you better w'y, hit's where you'd ort'o be--
But the little Town o' Tailholt's good enough fer me!
284

The Lost Kiss

The Lost Kiss

I put by the half-written poem,
While the pen, idly trailed in my hand,
Writes on--, 'Had I words to complete it,
Who'd read it, or who'd understand?'
But the little bare feet on the stairway,
And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,
Cry up to me over it all.


So I gather it up-- where was broken
The tear-faded thread of my theme,
Telling how, as one night I sat writing,
A fairy broke in on my dream,
A little inquisitive fairy--
My own little girl, with the gold
Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy
Blue eyes of the fairies of old.


'Twas the dear little girl that I scolded-'
For was it a moment like this,'
I said, 'when she knew I was busy,
To come romping in for a kiss--?
Come rowdying up from her mother,
And clamoring there at my knee
For 'One 'ittle kiss for my dolly,
And one 'ittle uzzer for me!'


God pity, the heart that repelled her,
And the cold hand that turned her away,
And take, from the lips that denied her,
This answerless prayer of to-day!
Take Lord, from my mem'ry forever
That pitiful sob of despair,
And the patter and trip of the little bare feet,
And the one piercing cry on the stair!


I put by the half-written poem,
While the pen, idly trailed in my hand
Writes on--, 'Had I words to complete it
Who'd read it, or who'd understand?'
But the little bare feet on the stairway,
And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall,
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence,
Cry up to me over it all.
302

The Little Fat Doctor

The Little Fat Doctor

He seemed so strange to me, every way--
In manner, and form, and size,
From the boy I knew but yesterday,--
I could hardly believe my eyes!


To hear his name called over there,
My memory thrilled with glee
And leaped to picture him young and fair
In youth, as he used to be.


But looking, only as glad eyes can,
For the boy I knew of yore,
I smiled on a portly little man
I had never seen before!--


Grave as a judge in courtliness-Professor-
like and bland--
A little fat doctor and nothing less,
With his hat in his kimboed hand.


But how we talked old times, and 'chaffed'
Each other with 'Minnie' and 'Jim'---
And how the little fat doctor laughed,
And how I laughed with him!


'And it's pleasant,' I thought, 'though I yearn to see
The face of the youth that was,
To know no boy could smile on me
As the little fat doctor does!'
265

The Legend Glorified

The Legend Glorified

'I deem that God is not disquieted'--
This in a mighty poet's rhymes I read;
And blazoned so forever doth abide
Within my soul the legend glorified.


Though awful tempests thunder overhead,
I deem that God is not disquieted,--
The faith that trembles somewhat yet is sure
Through storm and darkness of a way secure.


Bleak winters, when the naked spirit hears
The break of hearts, through stinging sleet of tears,
I deem that God is not disquieted;
Against all stresses am I clothed and fed.


Nay, even with fixed eyes and broken breath,
My feet dip down into the tides of death,
Nor any friend be left, nor prayer be said,
I deem that God is not disquieted.
278

The Jaybird

The Jaybird

The Jaybird he's my _favorite_
Of all the birds they is!
I think he's quite a stylish sight
In that blue suit of his:
An' when he' lights an' shuts his wings,
His coat's a 'cutaway'--
I guess it's only when he sings
You'd know he wuz a jay.


I like to watch him when he's lit
In top of any tree,
'Cause all birds git wite out of it
When _he_ 'lights, an' they see
How proud he act', an' swell an' spread
His chest out more an' more,
An' raise the feathers on his head
Like it's cut pompadore!
265

The Katydids

The Katydids

Sometimes I keep
From going to sleep,
To hear the katydids 'cheep-cheep!'
And think they say
Their prayers that way;
But _katydids_ don't have to _pray_!


I listen when
They cheep again
And so, I think, they're _singing_ then!
But, no; I'm wrong,--
The sound's too long
And all-alike to be a song!


I think, 'Well, there!
I do declare,
If it is neither song nor prayer,
It's _talk_--and quite
Too vain and light
For me to listen to all night!'


And so, I smile,
And think,--'Now I'll
Not listen for a little while!'--
Then, sweet and clear,
Next '_cheep_' I hear
'S a _kiss_.... Good morning, Mommy dear!
301

The Hoosier Folk-Child

The Hoosier Folk-Child

The Hoosier Folk-Child--all unsung--
Unlettered all of mind and tongue;
Unmastered, unmolested--made
Most wholly frank and unafraid:
Untaught of any school--unvexed
Of law or creed--all unperplexed--
Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled,
An all imperfect-perfect child--
A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you
And I do tardy honor to,
And so, profane the sanctities
Of our most sacred memories.
Who, growing thus from boy to man,
That dares not be American?
Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz--
Go _whistle_! as the Folk-Child does.


The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not
Much wider than the stable-lot
Between the house and highway fence
That bounds the home his father rents.
His playmates mostly are the ducks
And chickens, and the boy that 'shucks
Corn by the shock,' and talks of town,
And whether eggs are 'up' or 'down,'
And prophesies in boastful tone
Of 'owning horses of his own,'
And 'being his own man,' and 'when
He gets to be, what he'll do then.'--
Takes out his jack-knife dreamily
And makes the Folk-Child two or three
Crude corn-stalk figures,--a wee span
Of horses and a little man.


The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise
And wide and round as Brownies' eyes:
The smile they wear is ever blent
With all-expectant wonderment,--
On homeliest things they bend a look
As rapt as o'er a picture-book,
And seem to ask, whate'er befall,
The happy reason of it all:--
Why grass is all so glad a green,
And leaves--and what their lispings mean;--
Why buds grow on the boughs, and why
They burst in blossom by and by--
As though the orchard in the breeze
Had shook and popped its _popcorn-trees_,
To lure and whet, as well they might,
Some seven-league giant's appetite!


The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face



Has scant refinement, caste or grace,--
From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek,
It bears the grimy water-streak
Of rinsings such as some long rain
Might drool across the window-pane
Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown,
As some lorn team drives by for town.
His brow is elfed with wispish hair,
With tangles in it here and there,
As though the warlocks snarled it so
At midmirk when the moon sagged low,
And boughs did toss and skreek and shake,
And children moaned themselves awake,
With fingers clutched, and starting sight
Blind as the blackness of the night!


The Hoosier Folk-Child!--Rich is he
In all the wealth of poverty!
He owns nor title nor estate,
Nor speech but half articulate,--
He owns nor princely robe nor crown;--
Yet, draped in patched and faded brown,
He owns the bird-songs of the hills--
The laughter of the April rills;
And his are all the diamonds set.
In Morning's dewy coronet,--
And his the Dusk's first minted stars
That twinkle through the pasture-bars,
And litter all the skies at night
With glittering scraps of silver light;--
The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim,
In beaten gold, belongs to him.
365

The Home-Going

The Home-Going

We must get home--for we have been away
So long it seems forever and a day!
And O so very homesick we have grown,
The laughter of the world is like a moan
In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain,--
We must get home--we must get home again!


We must get home: It hurts so, staying here,
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear,
And where to wear wet lashes means, at best,
When most our lack, the least our hope of rest
When most our need of joy, the more our pain--
We must get home--we must get home again!


We must get home: All is so quiet there:
The touch of loving hands on brow and hair--
Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild---
The lost love of the mother and the child
Restored in restful lullabies of rain.--
We must get home--we must get home again!


We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse,
Time humors us and tiptoes through the house,
And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise,
With dreams--not tear-drops--brimming our clenched eyes,--
Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain--
We must get home--we must get home again!


We must get home; and, unremembering there
All gain of all ambitions otherwhere,
Rest--from the feverish victory, and the crown
Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.-Fame's
fairest gifts we toss back with disdain--
We must get home--we must get home again!
371

The Hereafter

The Hereafter

Hereafter! O we need not waste
Our smiles or tears, whatever befall:
No happiness but holds a taste
Of something sweeter, after all;--
No depth of agony but feels
Some fragment of abiding trust,--
Whatever death unlocks or seals,
The mute beyond is just.
282

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