The Redwood gazette. [volume] (Redwood Falls, Minn.) 1873-1940, 1895-01-03

skill, thereby irritating the manager so
that he returned to New York on the
following day.
Holmes had none Of this dry, crisp
humor, but cared more for subtle and
delicate play upon words than play
upon lecture manager or hotel pro-
prietor.
Yesterday l met an old citizen of
Hudson, Wis, who asked me all about
Mr.. Riley. lie seemed to feel great in
terest in both Of US, so I asked him if
he read our books.
"No," he said. 81 never read much
after erry one of ye, but saw ye when
Riley visited ye here at Hudson for a
few weeks, and both of ye was out on
the lawn with an umbrella apiece, and
plug hat, playin two old cat with
yarn ball in /. pourin rain, and l says to
| myself surely Hudson is favored spot,
for l never saw two such id fools
in one inclosure, and no charge for ad-
mission -
But we were then less than 40 years
Of age. We are more serious now.
Still Riley is different from Holmes
Once On the state fair grounds at In
dianapoIis an elderly Hoosier came ur
to our manager and said:
Excuse me; but amt that little
bench leg Teller over there the Hoosier
poet?'
"Yes,' says Mr. Walker, "but he
can't hear much Of anything in one ear,
and the other is plum gone. On that
side he hasn't heard his own loudest
thoughts for years. If you speak to him,
you must let your voice OUT
So the man with the copperas hair
and solferino whiskers stole up to him
and in wild bleat shot this remark in
to Riley's ear:
81 "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 ii chance, and he
repeated the query in way that shook
the blue ribbon Of the large iron gray
Rosa Bonheur stallion across the plaza.
rs this Mr.. Riley?"
The poet said softly as he squirmed
up little closer, Il can't hear what
ye 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 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:
Il knew yer father''
eyes, yes, !" said Riley, $50 did l."
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 Mr.. Riley, who is a lover of fried
onions and broad humor. He is more
like Tennyson, fancy.
Mr.. Peacock has just published an i'm
passioned 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 a tail across the
literary dashboard and an Algernonian
Swiaburnian whinny, kicks vast holes
in tie greensward and on Tuesdays ard
Fridiys may be found at home gnawing
the raanger and chaf1ng 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 q 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 hoat In my bark down life's passing
As matter Of fact, Mr.. Peacock has
no bark. He admitted that to me. He has
dog and 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 and without leaving
enough stove wood chopped up for the
house while he was gone, she would
cave in his organ Of ideality with a
pinking iron.
Mr.. Riley was down recently in the
mountains of North Carolina with our
| old friend, DIR. Hayes of Indianapolis.
They had with them case Of Milwau-
kee beer and a case of hay fever.
| As valet the little Hoosier poet had
a Hooppole county youth, whom he cali
Continued on 7th page.)