On one of the more modest streets of Indianapolis there lived, in 1916, an invalid. He was a man sixty-two years of age, with a genial face that had not been hardened by his years of suffering. This man, though living in a modest home and a confirmed invalid, had the rare distinction of being the most beloved man in America. While all classes loved him, the children loved him most; and fortunately they did not wait until he was dead to show their love. One of the nice things they used to do was to send him post cards on his birthdays. Sometimes he would get, on a single birthday, as many as a thousand cards from school children in all parts of the country.

While he could not answer all these cards, he did his best to let them know that he appreciated their kindly attention, as the following letter shows:

“To the School Children of Indianapolis:

“You are conspirators––every one of you, that’s what you are! You have conspired 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.”

On one of his birthdays the school children of Indianapolis decided to march in a great throng by his house and greet him as he sat by his window in an invalid’s chair. To their sorrow, when this birthday came it rained hard all day––so hard that they could not think of going out in the storm. But in the high school was a group of pupils who decided that no storm could keep them from showing their love. Accordingly, early in the evening, in the pouring rain, they gathered about his home and in clear, ringing tones sang several of his beautiful poems that had been set to music. So delighted was the great poet that he invited them in and they packed his large sitting room. And what an hour they had together! As they sang he forgot his suffering and was young again. Before they left he recited several of his poems in such a pleasing and impressive manner that I am sure those present will never forget it. One of these, and one which is a great favorite, is entitled 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 87 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 89 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 90 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.