The Oakley herald. [volume] (Oakley, Idaho) 1908-1961, 1912-11-01

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY,
INDIANAPOLIS-rhe sun, which
had shown warm and bright upon
James Whitcomb Riley's birthday.
was hidden in gray clouds on the day
following. There was dampness and
chill In the October air. At noon. a
friend who had dropped In at the old
tree-hidden house on Lockerbie street
that Is famous the world over, found
the poet sitting alone in his study be-
fore bright fire Of sea coal. Clus-
tered roses. sent by friends shed
their fragrance through the darken-
ed room, their petals slowly Dropping
in the warm air. On every piece OF
the quaint old-fashioned furniture
that Riley has always chung to lay
messages of congratulations from
friends. A sofa was heaped with let
ters and kilograms that told OF re-
joicing over the fact that the poet was
beginning a new year. The little room.
as always, spoke again of friends,
friends, friends. And before the dane
ing fire in the hearth sat Riley. mus
ing on the friends of yesterday.
1t was not long, in the silence. be-
fore he repeated. as though half to
himself, those lines Of Walter Savage
Landors:
Il warmed both hands before the
fire Of life;
1t sinks. and am ready to depart"
Eut he did not allow the beautiful.
melancholy words to die out without
cheerfuler gloss. "Landor's old age
was unhappy, wasn't IT." he asked.
While T." The sentence did not
need completion.
Dislikes Crowds.
Presently his motor came to tho
door and the two friends vent out for
the ride which Riley has taken daily
since his convalescence from his seri-
Gus Illness of two years ago. All last
winter-rain, shine or snow-he has
taken his daily excursion, until today
he Is ruddy-cheeked and stronger
than he was a year ago. The car
swung out of town, through the city
streets, into the country.
Il don't like crowds" he began.
still thinking of the city left behind
him. They suggest a necessity for
struggle that dismays me. I am no
enough in my own way. I've given the
best that was In me all my life long.
No. wouldn't live In city as big
as New York II they'd give me a mil
lion. My happiest recollection of New
York Is the dinner that was given to
Henry Irving there, nearly 20 years
ago, at which General Sherman pre-
sided and William Winter. at whose
side / sat, made the most eloquent
speech l have ever listened to. A
great city offers so much OF such
splendid companionship; and yet 1
couldn't stand it long. The endless
trouble of getting from place to place
would drive me mad. As dreary and
lonesome place as a hotel room il.
rather than undergo the irritation of
city streets l would lock myself In
my hotel room and throw the key out
of the window. And yet wish I might
see New York oftener, for / have
many friends there.
This birthday Is a good deal Diff
ferent from some of those l used to
have when / was just getting a start
In life. Lord, how I used to long for
patron In those days, such as poets
used to have! I'd have been satisfied
If some one would have paid me $40
q month. while / was writing verses
or $50 or even $50! couldn't think
of getting married couldn't dream
Of 1t. Why, / knew what 1t was to 70
around In ragged breeches as well as
any man that ever lived on Grub
street. Poets don't seem to know how
to make money. And / never would
have saved a cent II hadn't finally
turned over all my business affairs.
lock, stock and barrel to my brother
in law, Henry Eitel
II remember how the editor OF one
Of the old Indianapolis papers-it was
called the People--used to speak cd
ltorially of the 'vealy young man on
the Journal who thinks he can write
poetry He was a poet himself you
see- When my dialect poems first APP
peared over the name of Benjamin
F. Johnson OF Boone he advised mo
10 write the same sort of poetry az
Johnson did. though he xaid that It
was quite beyond me- He pointed out
70 me the fact that they were capable
Of transportion into ordinary English.
and even went SO far as to transpose
,ne of them in this way and publish
I'd his version as an object lesson to |
me. What was his name? Oh. II
doesn't matter now.
I've no use for the man who
adopts q pose In literature. Men of |
hat sort remind me OF a remark that |
Mr.. Nye made one night after he and |
had attended some theatrical per-
'ormance together. There had been q |
on the program who had |