The New York herald., 1920-12-26
Bv EDWIN CARTY RANCK.

ord of a little pilgrimage that made
fourteen years ago to the home OF
James whitcomb Riley 1t was in August,
1906. when 1 was going to st. Louis from
Cincinnati to accept the position of associate
editor Of small monthly magazine yclept
Humanity, long since deceased. En- route
to editorial fame and fortune ! stopped of
at Indianapolis between trains. Having
several hours on my hands to execute, and
filled with the sublime egotism of youth and
ignorance, / decided quite nonchalantly TO
call upon James Whitcomb Riley, the poet
Strangely enough, it never seemed to occur
to me that Mr. Riley might not welcome
visit from a strange young nonentity on a
hot August afternoon.
Now / have always been Riley fan anu
my father was one also. In an ancient scrap
book given to me by my father when was
small boy is pasted yellowed clipping of
that most perfect of all childhood poems,
Little Orphant Annie" which, like Lincoln
belongs to the ages" Being such a rapt
hero worshipper, l naturally on fire to
see the little man with glasses whose brain
child had been permanently adopted by the
American people
/ knew that Mr.. Riley lived in a magic
thoroughfare called Lockerbie street, and
asked a number of pedestrians to direct me
to his house, but not one of them could give
big policeman
Can you tell me how to reach the house
of James Whitcomb Riley?" 1 asked.
You mean Jim Riley, our poet, don't
your" he inquired, with marked emphasis on
the sour"
1 told him somewhat Indignantly that 1
considered Mr.. Riley just much n,y poet
as his or any other mans.
WELL" he grinned good naturedly. 'he
lives at 52S Lockerbie street and I'll tell you
just how to get there"
Lockerbie street was hidden away like
one of those fairy palaces in nursery tales
that vanish after the presumptuous mortal
has once set foot within its portals. No
street cars profaned its solitude. 1t was
like being in the heart of a wood. One felt
that there should have been a sign reading:
Poetry here; no thoroughfare."
Feeling the restful glamour of the place,
stepped upon the porch of the quaint old
house and rang the bell, which sounded
startlingly loud in the dreamy stiffness. A
gentle faced old woman came to the door
just the sort of old woman one would have
expected to keep poets house in magic
street. She asked my name, ushered me into
an old fashioned parlor and then silently dis
appeared in the depths of the house.
The silence was so profound that the tick
ing of an ancient clock in the hall sounded
like Brobdignagian timepiece. Birds were
chirping lazily outside the windows and the
whole world seemed to be browsing in the
sleep-drugged atmosphere of the August
afternoon. In the long parlor where l sat
the blinds were drawn, Southern fashion, and
there was refreshing dimness, in which
caught a glimpse of hair sofa and book
lined walls.
Then, very quietly, Mr.. Riley came in and
shook my hand as cordially as if we had been
friends of long standing. He was a small.
spare man with camealike face that seemed
to CLEAN in the subdued light like pallid
mask.
You see," he explained. Il have just
turned from the dentist, and l defy any one
to look like a poet when his teeth hurt-even
In Lockerbie street After each tooth Is
filled the poetry just naturally seems to ooze
out of a fellow" he drawled. with touch of
the whimsy that produced "The Raggedy
Man" However. feeling that my visit was
particularly i'll timed, said so and prepared
to depart, but the poet waved me down with
genial friendliness
In the conran nf that wonderful afternoon