  It was just after I had learned of the serious illness of that delightful poet and blessed friend, James Whitcomb Riley, the Bobby Burns of America, that I penned the following: How cruel of Nature to take one of her favorite children if she decides to! Why make humanity weep and chill our hearts? Why cause the Indiana flowers to cry for a gardener—for who will sing their praises when dear Jim has gone? Why clog "The Old Swimmin' Hole" with weeds? When our truant fancy wanders to "That Old Sweetheart of Mine," we won't purchase tickets for "Grigsby's Station" for "The Latch String" will have been severed. No coffee will be served "Like Mother Used to Make" for "Dat Leedle Boy of Mine." Only the barren, dusty road of decay will mark the meadows of melody that Riley has planted with the seeds of song and when Dame Nature commands his spirit to join the other singers in the celestial choir we who are left saddened can only kneel upon the sod made fragrant by his presence and entreat the messengers to bear him gently over the hills out to "Old Aunt Mary's" where the "Raggerty" man will whisper "Good-bye, Jim; take care of Yourself." As events transpired it was I who nearly started on the last long journey—and Jim recovered. And one day in 1912 came this message to ease my bed of pain:— Indianapolis Ind Oct 9 Via Long Beach Calif Oct 10th 12 Nat Goodwin, Ocean Park Calif. Heartiest appreciation for your good birthday greetings and all best wishes for your speedy recovery Loyally as ever. 9 28 a. m. James Whitcomb Riley |
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