The Wichita daily eagle. [volume] (Wichita, Kan.) 1890-1906, 1894-12-18
and in wild bleat shot this remark in
to Riley's ear:

is this Mr.. Riley:"
The poet offered him the other ear,
at the same time looking at him with
large blue, wondering, childlike eyes.
People stepped back out Of range to give
the man with the voice chance, and he
repeated the query in way that shook
the blue ribbon of the large iron gray
Rosa Bonheur stallion across the plaza
Is this Mr.. Riley"
The poet said softly as he squirmed
up little closer, II can't hear what
We say.
About 800 people were now around
there waiting to see what would happen,
and the man with the pounding ma
chine, for telling how much blow a
poor tired farmer can strike while rest
ing at a fair, hadn't taken in 10 cents
for over half an hour.
Finally the Hoosier man made out to
break through Riley's profound solitude
and make him hear and admit who he
was. Then the surprised and delighted
man shot into Riley's stunned and ach-
ing ear:
knew yer fatner!
Eyes, yes" said Riley, 80 did ], {"
and walked away.
Now, DR.. Holmes, while. in fact, quite
deaf, would have appeared to hear, and,
in fact. in that way was quite different
from MIR. Riley, vino is a lover of fried
onions and broad humor. He is more
like Tennyson, fancy.
Mr.. Peacock has just published an inn
FASHIONED song called My Queen Of
Love" It is one OF those songs which
open with low trill or two and the
twitter of the Devonshire bulbul in the
catnip orchard, but soon, with glad
snort, jumps the fence and gallops away
across the paddock, with tail across the
literary dashboard and an Algernonian
Swinburnian whinny, kicks vast holes
in the greensward and on Tuesdays and
Fridays may be found at home gnawing
the manger and chatting to be free.
He says:
I'd miss your sweet kisses and fond caressing.
Oh, my soul would athirst to drink from
your soul,
Where fountain of love is scattering its
blessing
In the desert of life an oasis and goal.
In another verse he boldly requests
this oasis and goal to
Cast off the anchors that bind you. and gladly
We Will float in my bark down life's passing
stream.
As a matter of fact, Mr. Peacock has
no bark. He admitted that to me. He has
a dog and a shotgun. but has no bark and
could not steer it if he had. Moreover,
his wife told me that if he went into
the oasis and goal business, or attempted
to drift down life's passing stream with
other parties ard without leaving
enough stove wood chopped up for the
house while he was gone, she would
cave in his organ of ideality with
pinking iron.
Mr.. Riley was down recently in the
mountains of North Carolina with our
old friend, DR.. Hayes of indianapolis.
They had with them case of Milwau-
kee beer and case of hay fever.
As valet the little Hoosier poet had
a Hooppole county youth. whom he call
ed Ringworm Pete because he runs
around SO much. He is a strawberry
roam young man, with eyes like fried
eggs and the low, rstreating forehead OF
the pickerel.
IpasSed through Indianapolis not long
ago on the Large Four railroad, and on
the train from Shelbyville we had a
number of the Riley people. One cid
man reminded me of William Leach
man, and the Liztown humorist was
along, with plug tobacco in his restless
jaw and cotton in his ears.
Also saw the family that seemed to
be on its way back to ''Griggsby's sta
ton, back where they used TO be so
happy and so pore. -
l am now on the way to the north
west up the upper Mississippi, where l
will visit old haunts in the valley of