JOHN HAY.

(‡ decoration)JOHN HAY.AUTHOR OF “LITTLE BREECHES.”ASIDE from General Lew Wallace and Edmund Clarence Stedman few business men or politicians have made a brighter mark in literature than the subject of this sketch.John Hay was born at Salem, Indiana, October8th, 1838. He was graduated at Brown’s University at the age of twenty, studied law and began to practice at Springfield, Illinois, in 1861. Soon after this he was made private secretary of President Lincoln, which position he filled throughout the latter’s administration. He also acted as Lincoln’s adjutant and aid-de-camp, and it was in consequence of this that he was brevetted colonel. He also saw service under Generals Hunter and Gilmore as major and assistant adjutant general. After the close of the warMr.Hay was appointed United States♦Secretary of Legation at Paris, serving in this capacity from 1865 to 1867, when he was appointedcharge d’affaires, where he served for two years, being removed to take a position as Secretary of Legation at Madrid, where he remained until 1870, at which time he returned to the United States and accepted an editorial position on the “New York Tribune.” This he resigned and removed to Cleveland, Ohio, in 1875, where he entered politics, taking an active part in the presidential campaigns of 1876, 1880 and 1884. Under President Hayes he was appointed as first assistant Secretary of State, which position he filled for nearly three years, and has made his home at Washington since that date. On March17th,Mr.Hay was appointed by President McKinley as ambassador to Great♣Britain, where he was accorded the usual hearty welcome tendered by the British to American ambassadors, many of whom during the past fifty years having been men of high literary attainment. Shortly afterMr.Hay’s arrival he was called upon to deliver an address at the unveiling of the Walter Scott monument, in which he did his country credit and maintained his own reputation as an orator and a man of letters.♦‘Secrectary’ replaced with ‘Secretary’♣‘Britian’ replaced with ‘Britain’As an authorMr.Hay’s first published works were the “Pike County Ballads and Other Pieces” (1871), “Castilian Days” (1871), “Poems” (1890), and, (in conjunction withMr.Nicolay), “Abraham Lincoln: a History,” which is regarded as the authoritative biography ofMr.Lincoln. This was first published in serial form in the “Century Magazine” from 1887 to 1889. Colonel Hay has also been a frequent contributor to high class periodicals, and to him has been ascribed the authorship of the anonymous novel “The Bread Winners,” which caused such agitation in labor circles a few years ago.Like many authors,Mr.Hay came into popularity almost by accident. Certainly he had no expectation of becoming prominent when he wrote his poem “Little Breeches;” yet that poem caused him to be remembered by a wider class of readers, perhaps, than anything else he has contributed to literature. The following account of how this poem came to be written was published afterMr.Hay’s appointment to the Court ofSt.James in 1897. The statement is given as made byMr.A. L. Williams, an acquaintance ofMr.Hay, who lives in Topeka, Kansas, and knows the circumstances. “The fact is,” saysMr.Williams, “the poem ‘Little Breeches’ and its reception by the American people make it one of the most humorous features of this day. It was written as a burlesque, and for no other purpose. Bret Harte had inaugurated a maudlin literature at a time when the ‘litery’ people of the United States were affected with hysteria. Under the inspiration of his genius, to be good was commonplace, to be virtuous was stupid—only gamblers, murderers and women of ill fame were heroic. Crime had reached its apotheosis. John Hay believed that ridicule would help cure this hysteria, and thus believing, wrote the burlesque, ‘Little Breeches.’ Wanting to make the burlesque so broad that the commonest intellect could grasp it, he took for his hero an unspeakably wretched brat whom no angel would touch unless to drop over the walls into Tophet, and made him the object of a special angelic miracle.“Well, John sprung his ‘Little Breeches’ and then sat back with his mouth wide open to join in the laugh which he thought it would evoke from his readers. To his intense astonishment, people took it seriously, and instead of laughing Bret Harte out of the field, immediately made John Hay a formidable rival to that gentleman.”Next to “Little Breeches” the poem “Jim Bludso,” perhaps, contributed most toMr.Hay’s reputation. Both of these selections will be found in the succeeding pages.LITTLE BREECHES.IDON’T go much on religion,I never ain’t had no show;But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,On the handful o’ things I know.I don’t pan out on the prophetsAnd free-will, and that sort of thing—But I b’lieve in God and the angels,Ever sence one night last spring.I come into town with some turnips,And my little Gabe come along—No four-year-old in the countyCould beat him for pretty and strong,Peart and chipper and sassy,Always ready to swear and fight—And I’d learnt him to chaw terbackerJest to keep his milk-teeth white.The snow come down like a blanketAs I passed by Taggart’s store;I went in for a jug of molassesAnd left the team at the door.They scared at something and started—I heard one little squall,And hell-to-split over the prairieWent team, Little Breeches and all.Hell-to-split over the prairie;I was almost froze with skeer;But we rousted up some torches,And searched for ’em far and near.At last we struck hosses and wagon,Snowed under a soft white mound,Upsot—dead beat—but of little GabeNo hide nor hair was found.And here all hope soured on me,Of my fellow-critters’ aid,I jest flopped down on my marrowbones,Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.By this, the torches was played out,And me and Isrul ParrWent off for some wood to a sheepfoldThat he said was somewhar thar.We found it at last, and a little shedWhere they shut up the lambs at night,We looked in and seen them huddled thar,So warm and sleepy and white;And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,As peart as ever you see,“I want a chaw of terbacker,An’ that’s what’s the matter of me.”How did he git thar? Angels.He could never have walked in that storm;They jest scooped down and toted himTo whar it was safe and warm.And I think that saving a little child,An’ fotching him to his own,Is a derned sight better businessThan loafing around the Throne.JIMBLUDSO.¹OF “THE PRAIRIE BELLE.”WALL, no; I can’t tell you whar he lives,Because he don’t live, you see;Leastways, he’s got out of the habitOf livin’ like you and me.Whar have you been for the last three yearThat you haven’t heard folks tellHow Jimmy Bludso passed in his checksThe night of the Prairie Belle?He weren’t no saint—them engineersIs all pretty much alike—One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,And another one here, in Pike;A keerless man in his talk was Jim,And an awkward hand in a row,But he never flunked, and he never lied—I reckon he never knowed how.And this was all the religion he had—To treat his engine well;Never be passed on the river;To mind the pilot’s bell;And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire—A thousand times he swore,He’d hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last soul got ashore.All boats has their day on the Mississip,And her day come at last—The Movastar was a better boat,But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed,And so she come tearin’ along that night—The oldest craft on the line—With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.A fire burst out as she cl’ared the bar,And burnt a hole in the night,And quick as a flash she turned, and madeFor that willer-bank on the right.There was runnin’, and cursin’, but Jim yelled out,Over all the infernal roar,“I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last galoot’s ashore.”Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boatJim Bludso’s voice was heard,And they all had trust in his cussedness,And knowed he would keep his word,And, sure’s you’re born, they all got offAfore the smokestacks fell—And Bludso’s ghost went up aloneIn the smoke of the Prairie Belle.He weren’t no saint; but at judgmentI’d run my chance with Jim,’Longside some pious gentlemenThat wouldn’t shook hands with him.He seen his duty—a dead-sure thing—And went for it thar and then;And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hardOn a man that died for men.¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.HOW ITHAPPENED.¹IPRAY your pardon, Elsie,And smile that frown awayThat dims the light of your lovely faceAs a thunder-cloud the day,I really could not help it,—Before I thought, it was done,—And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold,Like an icicle in the sun.I was thinking of the summersWhen we were boys and girls,And wandered in the blossoming woods,And the gay wind romped with her curls.And you seemed to me the same little girlI kissed in the alder-path,I kissed the little girl’s lips, and alas!I have roused a woman’s wrath.There is not so much to pardon,—For why were your lips so red?The blonde hair fell in a shower of goldFrom the proud, provoking head.And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyesAnd played round the tender mouth,Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet windThat blows from the fragrant South.And where after all is the harm done?I believe we were made to be gay,And all of youth not given to loveIs vainly squandered away,And strewn through life’s low labors,Like gold in the desert sands,Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vowsAnd the clasp of clinging hands.And when you are old and lonely,In memory’s magic shrineYou will see on your thin and wasting hands,Like gems, these kisses of mine.And when you muse at eveningAt the sound of some vanished name,The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lipsAnd kindle your heart to flame.¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.(‡ decoration)

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AUTHOR OF “LITTLE BREECHES.”

ASIDE from General Lew Wallace and Edmund Clarence Stedman few business men or politicians have made a brighter mark in literature than the subject of this sketch.

John Hay was born at Salem, Indiana, October8th, 1838. He was graduated at Brown’s University at the age of twenty, studied law and began to practice at Springfield, Illinois, in 1861. Soon after this he was made private secretary of President Lincoln, which position he filled throughout the latter’s administration. He also acted as Lincoln’s adjutant and aid-de-camp, and it was in consequence of this that he was brevetted colonel. He also saw service under Generals Hunter and Gilmore as major and assistant adjutant general. After the close of the warMr.Hay was appointed United States♦Secretary of Legation at Paris, serving in this capacity from 1865 to 1867, when he was appointedcharge d’affaires, where he served for two years, being removed to take a position as Secretary of Legation at Madrid, where he remained until 1870, at which time he returned to the United States and accepted an editorial position on the “New York Tribune.” This he resigned and removed to Cleveland, Ohio, in 1875, where he entered politics, taking an active part in the presidential campaigns of 1876, 1880 and 1884. Under President Hayes he was appointed as first assistant Secretary of State, which position he filled for nearly three years, and has made his home at Washington since that date. On March17th,Mr.Hay was appointed by President McKinley as ambassador to Great♣Britain, where he was accorded the usual hearty welcome tendered by the British to American ambassadors, many of whom during the past fifty years having been men of high literary attainment. Shortly afterMr.Hay’s arrival he was called upon to deliver an address at the unveiling of the Walter Scott monument, in which he did his country credit and maintained his own reputation as an orator and a man of letters.

♦‘Secrectary’ replaced with ‘Secretary’♣‘Britian’ replaced with ‘Britain’

♦‘Secrectary’ replaced with ‘Secretary’

♣‘Britian’ replaced with ‘Britain’

As an authorMr.Hay’s first published works were the “Pike County Ballads and Other Pieces” (1871), “Castilian Days” (1871), “Poems” (1890), and, (in conjunction withMr.Nicolay), “Abraham Lincoln: a History,” which is regarded as the authoritative biography ofMr.Lincoln. This was first published in serial form in the “Century Magazine” from 1887 to 1889. Colonel Hay has also been a frequent contributor to high class periodicals, and to him has been ascribed the authorship of the anonymous novel “The Bread Winners,” which caused such agitation in labor circles a few years ago.

Like many authors,Mr.Hay came into popularity almost by accident. Certainly he had no expectation of becoming prominent when he wrote his poem “Little Breeches;” yet that poem caused him to be remembered by a wider class of readers, perhaps, than anything else he has contributed to literature. The following account of how this poem came to be written was published afterMr.Hay’s appointment to the Court ofSt.James in 1897. The statement is given as made byMr.A. L. Williams, an acquaintance ofMr.Hay, who lives in Topeka, Kansas, and knows the circumstances. “The fact is,” saysMr.Williams, “the poem ‘Little Breeches’ and its reception by the American people make it one of the most humorous features of this day. It was written as a burlesque, and for no other purpose. Bret Harte had inaugurated a maudlin literature at a time when the ‘litery’ people of the United States were affected with hysteria. Under the inspiration of his genius, to be good was commonplace, to be virtuous was stupid—only gamblers, murderers and women of ill fame were heroic. Crime had reached its apotheosis. John Hay believed that ridicule would help cure this hysteria, and thus believing, wrote the burlesque, ‘Little Breeches.’ Wanting to make the burlesque so broad that the commonest intellect could grasp it, he took for his hero an unspeakably wretched brat whom no angel would touch unless to drop over the walls into Tophet, and made him the object of a special angelic miracle.

“Well, John sprung his ‘Little Breeches’ and then sat back with his mouth wide open to join in the laugh which he thought it would evoke from his readers. To his intense astonishment, people took it seriously, and instead of laughing Bret Harte out of the field, immediately made John Hay a formidable rival to that gentleman.”

Next to “Little Breeches” the poem “Jim Bludso,” perhaps, contributed most toMr.Hay’s reputation. Both of these selections will be found in the succeeding pages.

LITTLE BREECHES.

IDON’T go much on religion,I never ain’t had no show;But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,On the handful o’ things I know.I don’t pan out on the prophetsAnd free-will, and that sort of thing—But I b’lieve in God and the angels,Ever sence one night last spring.I come into town with some turnips,And my little Gabe come along—No four-year-old in the countyCould beat him for pretty and strong,Peart and chipper and sassy,Always ready to swear and fight—And I’d learnt him to chaw terbackerJest to keep his milk-teeth white.The snow come down like a blanketAs I passed by Taggart’s store;I went in for a jug of molassesAnd left the team at the door.They scared at something and started—I heard one little squall,And hell-to-split over the prairieWent team, Little Breeches and all.Hell-to-split over the prairie;I was almost froze with skeer;But we rousted up some torches,And searched for ’em far and near.At last we struck hosses and wagon,Snowed under a soft white mound,Upsot—dead beat—but of little GabeNo hide nor hair was found.And here all hope soured on me,Of my fellow-critters’ aid,I jest flopped down on my marrowbones,Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.By this, the torches was played out,And me and Isrul ParrWent off for some wood to a sheepfoldThat he said was somewhar thar.We found it at last, and a little shedWhere they shut up the lambs at night,We looked in and seen them huddled thar,So warm and sleepy and white;And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,As peart as ever you see,“I want a chaw of terbacker,An’ that’s what’s the matter of me.”How did he git thar? Angels.He could never have walked in that storm;They jest scooped down and toted himTo whar it was safe and warm.And I think that saving a little child,An’ fotching him to his own,Is a derned sight better businessThan loafing around the Throne.

DON’T go much on religion,

I never ain’t had no show;

But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,

On the handful o’ things I know.

I don’t pan out on the prophets

And free-will, and that sort of thing—

But I b’lieve in God and the angels,

Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,

And my little Gabe come along—

No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong,

Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight—

And I’d learnt him to chaw terbacker

Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket

As I passed by Taggart’s store;

I went in for a jug of molasses

And left the team at the door.

They scared at something and started—

I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie;

I was almost froze with skeer;

But we rousted up some torches,

And searched for ’em far and near.

At last we struck hosses and wagon,

Snowed under a soft white mound,

Upsot—dead beat—but of little Gabe

No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me,

Of my fellow-critters’ aid,

I jest flopped down on my marrowbones,

Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this, the torches was played out,

And me and Isrul Parr

Went off for some wood to a sheepfold

That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed

Where they shut up the lambs at night,

We looked in and seen them huddled thar,

So warm and sleepy and white;

And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,

As peart as ever you see,

“I want a chaw of terbacker,

An’ that’s what’s the matter of me.”

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm;

They jest scooped down and toted him

To whar it was safe and warm.

And I think that saving a little child,

An’ fotching him to his own,

Is a derned sight better business

Than loafing around the Throne.

JIMBLUDSO.¹

OF “THE PRAIRIE BELLE.”

WALL, no; I can’t tell you whar he lives,Because he don’t live, you see;Leastways, he’s got out of the habitOf livin’ like you and me.Whar have you been for the last three yearThat you haven’t heard folks tellHow Jimmy Bludso passed in his checksThe night of the Prairie Belle?He weren’t no saint—them engineersIs all pretty much alike—One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,And another one here, in Pike;A keerless man in his talk was Jim,And an awkward hand in a row,But he never flunked, and he never lied—I reckon he never knowed how.And this was all the religion he had—To treat his engine well;Never be passed on the river;To mind the pilot’s bell;And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire—A thousand times he swore,He’d hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last soul got ashore.All boats has their day on the Mississip,And her day come at last—The Movastar was a better boat,But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed,And so she come tearin’ along that night—The oldest craft on the line—With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.A fire burst out as she cl’ared the bar,And burnt a hole in the night,And quick as a flash she turned, and madeFor that willer-bank on the right.There was runnin’, and cursin’, but Jim yelled out,Over all the infernal roar,“I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bankTill the last galoot’s ashore.”Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boatJim Bludso’s voice was heard,And they all had trust in his cussedness,And knowed he would keep his word,And, sure’s you’re born, they all got offAfore the smokestacks fell—And Bludso’s ghost went up aloneIn the smoke of the Prairie Belle.He weren’t no saint; but at judgmentI’d run my chance with Jim,’Longside some pious gentlemenThat wouldn’t shook hands with him.He seen his duty—a dead-sure thing—And went for it thar and then;And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hardOn a man that died for men.¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.

ALL, no; I can’t tell you whar he lives,

Because he don’t live, you see;

Leastways, he’s got out of the habit

Of livin’ like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three year

That you haven’t heard folks tell

How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks

The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren’t no saint—them engineers

Is all pretty much alike—

One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill,

And another one here, in Pike;

A keerless man in his talk was Jim,

And an awkward hand in a row,

But he never flunked, and he never lied—

I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had—

To treat his engine well;

Never be passed on the river;

To mind the pilot’s bell;

And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire—

A thousand times he swore,

He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip,

And her day come at last—

The Movastar was a better boat,

But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed,

And so she come tearin’ along that night—

The oldest craft on the line—

With a nigger squat on her safety-valve,

And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

A fire burst out as she cl’ared the bar,

And burnt a hole in the night,

And quick as a flash she turned, and made

For that willer-bank on the right.

There was runnin’, and cursin’, but Jim yelled out,

Over all the infernal roar,

“I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank

Till the last galoot’s ashore.”

Through the hot black breath of the burnin’ boat

Jim Bludso’s voice was heard,

And they all had trust in his cussedness,

And knowed he would keep his word,

And, sure’s you’re born, they all got off

Afore the smokestacks fell—

And Bludso’s ghost went up alone

In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren’t no saint; but at judgment

I’d run my chance with Jim,

’Longside some pious gentlemen

That wouldn’t shook hands with him.

He seen his duty—a dead-sure thing—

And went for it thar and then;

And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard

On a man that died for men.

¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.

HOW ITHAPPENED.¹

IPRAY your pardon, Elsie,And smile that frown awayThat dims the light of your lovely faceAs a thunder-cloud the day,I really could not help it,—Before I thought, it was done,—And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold,Like an icicle in the sun.I was thinking of the summersWhen we were boys and girls,And wandered in the blossoming woods,And the gay wind romped with her curls.And you seemed to me the same little girlI kissed in the alder-path,I kissed the little girl’s lips, and alas!I have roused a woman’s wrath.There is not so much to pardon,—For why were your lips so red?The blonde hair fell in a shower of goldFrom the proud, provoking head.And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyesAnd played round the tender mouth,Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet windThat blows from the fragrant South.And where after all is the harm done?I believe we were made to be gay,And all of youth not given to loveIs vainly squandered away,And strewn through life’s low labors,Like gold in the desert sands,Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vowsAnd the clasp of clinging hands.And when you are old and lonely,In memory’s magic shrineYou will see on your thin and wasting hands,Like gems, these kisses of mine.And when you muse at eveningAt the sound of some vanished name,The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lipsAnd kindle your heart to flame.¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.(‡ decoration)

PRAY your pardon, Elsie,

And smile that frown away

That dims the light of your lovely face

As a thunder-cloud the day,

I really could not help it,—

Before I thought, it was done,—

And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold,

Like an icicle in the sun.

I was thinking of the summers

When we were boys and girls,

And wandered in the blossoming woods,

And the gay wind romped with her curls.

And you seemed to me the same little girl

I kissed in the alder-path,

I kissed the little girl’s lips, and alas!

I have roused a woman’s wrath.

There is not so much to pardon,—

For why were your lips so red?

The blonde hair fell in a shower of gold

From the proud, provoking head.

And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes

And played round the tender mouth,

Rushed over my soul like a warm sweet wind

That blows from the fragrant South.

And where after all is the harm done?

I believe we were made to be gay,

And all of youth not given to love

Is vainly squandered away,

And strewn through life’s low labors,

Like gold in the desert sands,

Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows

And the clasp of clinging hands.

And when you are old and lonely,

In memory’s magic shrine

You will see on your thin and wasting hands,

Like gems, these kisses of mine.

And when you muse at evening

At the sound of some vanished name,

The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips

And kindle your heart to flame.

¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.

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WELL-KNOWN WESTERN POETS.EUGENE FIELD • BRET HARTEJAMES WHITCOMB RILEYJOAQUIN MILLER(CINCINNATUS HEINE)• WILL CARLETON(‡ decoration)JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.“THE HOOSIER POET.”NO poet of the modern times has obtained a greater popularity with the masses than the Indianian, James Whitcomb Riley, who has recently obtained the rank of a National Poet, and whose temporary hold upon the people equals, if it does not exceed, that of any living verse writer. The productions of this author have crystallized certain features of life that will grow in value as time goes by. In reading “The Old Swimmin’ Hole,” one almost feels the cool refreshing water touch the thirsty skin. And such poems as “Griggsby’s Station,” “Airly Days,” “When the Frost is on the Punkin,” “That Old Sweetheart of Mine,” and others, go straight to the heart of the reader with a mixture of pleasant recollections, tenderness, humor, and sincerity, that is most delightful in its effect.Mr.Riley is particularly a poet of the country people. Though he was not raised on a farm himself, he had so completely imbibed its atmosphere that his readers would scarcely believe he was not the veritable Benjamin F. Johnston, the simple-hearted Boone County farmer, whom he honored with the authorship of his early poems. To every man who has been a country boy and “played hookey” on the school-master to go swimming or fishing or bird-nesting or stealing water-melons, or simply to lie on the orchard grass, many of Riley’s poems come as an echo from his own experiences, bringing a vivid and pleasingly melodious retrospect of the past.Mr.Riley’s “Child Verses” are equally as famous. There is an artless catching sing-song in his verses, not unlike the jingle of the “Mother Goose Melodies.” Especially fine in their faithfulness to child-life, and in easy♦rhythm, are the pieces describing “Little Orphant Allie” and “The Ragged Man.”♦‘rythm’ replaced with ‘rhythm’An’ Little Orphant Allie says, when the blaze is blue,An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,An’ the lightnin’-bug in dew is all squenched away,—You better mind yer parents and yer teacher fond an’ dear,An’ cherish them ’at loves you and dry the orphant’s tear,An’ he’p the poor an’ needy ones ’at cluster all about,Er the gobble-uns ’ll git youEf you—don’t—watch—out.James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His father was a Quaker, and a leading attorney of that place, and desired to make a lawyerof his son; butMr.Riley tells us, “Whenever I picked up ‘Blackstone’ or ‘Greenleaf,’ my wits went to wool-gathering, and my father was soon convinced that his hopes of my achieving greatness at the bar were doomed to disappointment.” Referring to his education, the poet further says, “I never had much schooling, and what I did get, I believe did me little good. I never could master mathematics, and history was a dull and juiceless thing to me; but I always was fond of reading in a random way, and took naturally to the theatrical. I cannot remember when I was not a declaimer, and I began to rhyme almost as soon as I could talk.”Riley’s first occupation was as a sign painter for a patent-medicine man, with whom he traveled for a year. On leaving this employment he organized a company of sign painters, with whom he traveled over the country giving musical entertainments and painting signs. In referring to this he says, “All the members of the company were good musicians as well as painters, and we used to drum up trade with our music. We kept at it for three or four years, made plenty of money, had lots of fun, and did no harm to ourselves or any one else. Of course, during this sign painting period, I was writing verses all the time, and finally after the Graphic Company’s last trip I secured a position on the weekly paper at Anderson.” For many years Riley endeavored to have his verses published in various magazines, “sending them from one to another,” he says, “to get them promptly back again.” Finally, he sent some verses to the poet Longfellow, who congratulated him warmly, as did alsoMr.Lowell, to whose “New England Dialectic Poems”Mr.Riley’s “Hoosier Rhymes” bore a striking resemblance. From this time forward his success was assured, and, instead of hunting publishers, he has been kept more than busy in supplying their eager demands upon his pen.Mr.Riley’s methods of work are peculiar to himself. His poems are composed as he travels or goes about the streets, and, once they are thought out, he immediately stops and transfers them to paper. But he must work as the mood or muse moves him. He cannot be driven. On this point he says of himself, “It is almost impossible for me to do good work on orders. If I have agreed to complete a poem at a certain time, I cannot do it at all; but when I can write without considering the future, I get along much better.” He further says, with reference to writing dialect, that it is not his preference to do so. He prefers the recognized poetic form; “but,” he adds, “dialectic verse is natural and gains added charm from its very commonplaceness. If truth and depiction of nature are wanted, and dialect is a touch of nature, then it should not be disregarded. I follow nature as closely as I can, and try to make my people think and speak as they do in real life, and such success as I have achieved is due to this.”The first published work of the author was “The Old Swimmin’ Hole” and “’Leven More Poems,” which appeared in 1883. Since that date he published a number of volumes. Among the most popular may be mentioned, “Armazindy,” which contains some of his best dialect and serious verses, including the famous Poe Poem, “Leonainie,” written and published in early life as one of the lost poems of Poe, and on which he deceived even Poe’s biographers, so accurate was he in mimicking the style of the author of the “Raven;” “Neighborly Poems;” “Sketches in Prose,” originally published as “The Boss Girl and Other Stories;” “Afterwhiles,” comprising sixty-two poems and sonnets, serious, pathetic, humorous anddialectic; “Pipes O’ Pan,” containing five sketches and fifty poems; “Rhymes of Childhood;” “Flying Islands of the Night,” a weird and grotesque drama in verse; “Green Fields and Running Brooks,” comprising one hundred and two poems and sonnets, dialectic, humorous and serious.The poet has never married. He makes his home in Indianapolis, Indiana, with his sister, where his surroundings are of the most pleasant nature; and he is scarcely less a favorite with the children of the neighborhood than was the renowned child poet, Eugene Field, at his home. The devotion ofMr.Riley to his aged parents, whose last days he made the happiest and brightest of their lives, has been repeatedly commented upon in the current notices of the poet.Mr.Riley has personally met more of the American people, perhaps, than any other living poet. He is constantly “on the wing.” For about eight months out of every twelve for the past several years he has been on the lecture platform, and there are few of the more intelligent class of people in the leading cities of America, who have not availed themselves, at one time or another, to the treat of listening to his inimitable recitation of his poems. His short vacation in the summer—“his loafing days,” as he calls them—are spent with his relatives, and it is on these occasions that the genial poet is found at his best.A BOY’SMOTHER.¹FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”MY mother she’s so good to me,Ef I wuz good as I could be,I couldn’t be as good—no,sir!—Can’tanyboy be good asher!She loves me when I’m glad er sad;She loves me when I’m good er bad;An’, what’s a funniest thing, she saysShe loves me when she punishes.I don’t like her to punish me.—Thatdon’t hurt,—but it hurts to seeHer cryin’.—Nen I cry; an’ nenWebothcry an’ be good again.She loves me when she cuts an’ sewsMy little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes;An’ when my Pa comes home to tea,She loves him most as much as me.She laughs an’ tells him all I said,An’ grabs me an’ pats my head;An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa,An’ love him purt’-nigh much as Ma.¹By Permission of the CenturyCo.THOUGHTS ON THE LATEWAR.¹FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”IWAS for Union—you, ag’in’ it.’Pears like, to me, each side was winner,Lookin’ at now and all ’at ’s in it.Le’ ’s go to dinner.Le’ ’s kind o’ jes’ set down togetherAnd do some pardnership forgittin’—Talk, say, for instance, ’bout the weather,Or somepin’ fittin’.The war, you know, ’s all done and ended,And ain’t changed no p’ints o’ the compass;Both North and South the health’s jes’ splendidAs ’fore the rumpus.The old farms and the old plantationsStill ockipies the’r old positions.Le’ ’s git back to old situationsAnd old ambitions.Le’ ’s let up on this blame’, infernalTongue-lashin’ and lap-jacket vauntin’And git back home to the eternalCa’m we’re a-wantin’.Peace kind o’ sort o’ suits my diet—When women does my cookin’ for me,Ther’ wasn’t overly much pie etDurin’ the army.¹By Permission of the CenturyCo.OUR HIREDGIRL.¹FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”OUR hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann;An’ she can cook best things to eat!She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,An’ pours in somepin’ ’at ’s good an’ sweet;An’ nen she salts it all on topWith cinnamon; an’ nen she’ll stopAn’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow,In th’ old cook-stove, so ’s ’t wont slopAn’ git all spilled; nen bakes it, soIt’s custard-pie, first thing you know!An’ nen she’ll say,“Clear out o’ my way!They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done!”When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad,An’ says folks got to walk the chalkWhenshe’saround, er wisht they had!I play out on our porch an’ talkTo th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn;An’ he says, “Whew!” an’ nen leans onHis old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I swawn!Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies,It ’pears like I smell custard-pies!”An’ nenhe’llsay,“Clear out o’ my way!They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done!”Wunst our hired girl, when sheGot the supper, an’ we all et,An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ meAn’ Pa went wher’ the “Social” met,—An’ nen when we come home, an’ seeA light in the kitchen-door, an’ weHeerd a maccordeun, Pa says, “Lan’-O’-Gracious! who canherbeau be?”An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth AnnWuz parchin’ corn fer the Raggedy Man!Bettersay,“Clear out o’ the way!They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!Take the hint, an’ run, child, run!Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done!”¹By permission of The CenturyCo.THE RAGGEDYMAN.¹FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”OTHE Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!He comes to our house every day,An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay;An’ he opens the shed—an’ we all ist laughWhen he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;An’ nen—ef our hired girl says he can—He milks the cow fer ’Lizabuth Ann.—Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!W’y, the Raggedy Man—he ’s ist so good,He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood;An’ nen he spades in our garden, too,An’ does most things ’tboyscan’t do.—He clumbed clean up in our big treeAn’ shooked a’ apple down fer me—An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer ’Lizabuth Ann—An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer the Raggedy Man.—Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!An’ the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes:Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves,An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ’at swallers therselves!An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,He showed me the hole ’at the Wunks is got,’At lives ’way deep in the ground, an’ canTurn into me, er ’Lizabuth Ann!Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!The Raggedy Man—one time, when heWuz makin’ a little bow’-n’-orry fer me,Says, “When you’re big like your Pa is,Airyougo’ to keep a fine store like his—An’ be a rich merchunt—an’ wear fine clothes?—Er whatairyou go’ to be, goodness knows?”An’ nen he laughed at ’Lizabuth Ann,An’ I says, “’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!—I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!”Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!¹By permission of The CenturyCo.

WELL-KNOWN WESTERN POETS.EUGENE FIELD • BRET HARTEJAMES WHITCOMB RILEYJOAQUIN MILLER(CINCINNATUS HEINE)• WILL CARLETON

WELL-KNOWN WESTERN POETS.

EUGENE FIELD • BRET HARTEJAMES WHITCOMB RILEYJOAQUIN MILLER(CINCINNATUS HEINE)• WILL CARLETON

(‡ decoration)

“THE HOOSIER POET.”

NO poet of the modern times has obtained a greater popularity with the masses than the Indianian, James Whitcomb Riley, who has recently obtained the rank of a National Poet, and whose temporary hold upon the people equals, if it does not exceed, that of any living verse writer. The productions of this author have crystallized certain features of life that will grow in value as time goes by. In reading “The Old Swimmin’ Hole,” one almost feels the cool refreshing water touch the thirsty skin. And such poems as “Griggsby’s Station,” “Airly Days,” “When the Frost is on the Punkin,” “That Old Sweetheart of Mine,” and others, go straight to the heart of the reader with a mixture of pleasant recollections, tenderness, humor, and sincerity, that is most delightful in its effect.

Mr.Riley is particularly a poet of the country people. Though he was not raised on a farm himself, he had so completely imbibed its atmosphere that his readers would scarcely believe he was not the veritable Benjamin F. Johnston, the simple-hearted Boone County farmer, whom he honored with the authorship of his early poems. To every man who has been a country boy and “played hookey” on the school-master to go swimming or fishing or bird-nesting or stealing water-melons, or simply to lie on the orchard grass, many of Riley’s poems come as an echo from his own experiences, bringing a vivid and pleasingly melodious retrospect of the past.

Mr.Riley’s “Child Verses” are equally as famous. There is an artless catching sing-song in his verses, not unlike the jingle of the “Mother Goose Melodies.” Especially fine in their faithfulness to child-life, and in easy♦rhythm, are the pieces describing “Little Orphant Allie” and “The Ragged Man.”

♦‘rythm’ replaced with ‘rhythm’

An’ Little Orphant Allie says, when the blaze is blue,An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,An’ the lightnin’-bug in dew is all squenched away,—You better mind yer parents and yer teacher fond an’ dear,An’ cherish them ’at loves you and dry the orphant’s tear,An’ he’p the poor an’ needy ones ’at cluster all about,Er the gobble-uns ’ll git youEf you—don’t—watch—out.

An’ Little Orphant Allie says, when the blaze is blue,

An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!

An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,

An’ the lightnin’-bug in dew is all squenched away,—

You better mind yer parents and yer teacher fond an’ dear,

An’ cherish them ’at loves you and dry the orphant’s tear,

An’ he’p the poor an’ needy ones ’at cluster all about,

Er the gobble-uns ’ll git you

Ef you—don’t—watch—out.

James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His father was a Quaker, and a leading attorney of that place, and desired to make a lawyerof his son; butMr.Riley tells us, “Whenever I picked up ‘Blackstone’ or ‘Greenleaf,’ my wits went to wool-gathering, and my father was soon convinced that his hopes of my achieving greatness at the bar were doomed to disappointment.” Referring to his education, the poet further says, “I never had much schooling, and what I did get, I believe did me little good. I never could master mathematics, and history was a dull and juiceless thing to me; but I always was fond of reading in a random way, and took naturally to the theatrical. I cannot remember when I was not a declaimer, and I began to rhyme almost as soon as I could talk.”

Riley’s first occupation was as a sign painter for a patent-medicine man, with whom he traveled for a year. On leaving this employment he organized a company of sign painters, with whom he traveled over the country giving musical entertainments and painting signs. In referring to this he says, “All the members of the company were good musicians as well as painters, and we used to drum up trade with our music. We kept at it for three or four years, made plenty of money, had lots of fun, and did no harm to ourselves or any one else. Of course, during this sign painting period, I was writing verses all the time, and finally after the Graphic Company’s last trip I secured a position on the weekly paper at Anderson.” For many years Riley endeavored to have his verses published in various magazines, “sending them from one to another,” he says, “to get them promptly back again.” Finally, he sent some verses to the poet Longfellow, who congratulated him warmly, as did alsoMr.Lowell, to whose “New England Dialectic Poems”Mr.Riley’s “Hoosier Rhymes” bore a striking resemblance. From this time forward his success was assured, and, instead of hunting publishers, he has been kept more than busy in supplying their eager demands upon his pen.

Mr.Riley’s methods of work are peculiar to himself. His poems are composed as he travels or goes about the streets, and, once they are thought out, he immediately stops and transfers them to paper. But he must work as the mood or muse moves him. He cannot be driven. On this point he says of himself, “It is almost impossible for me to do good work on orders. If I have agreed to complete a poem at a certain time, I cannot do it at all; but when I can write without considering the future, I get along much better.” He further says, with reference to writing dialect, that it is not his preference to do so. He prefers the recognized poetic form; “but,” he adds, “dialectic verse is natural and gains added charm from its very commonplaceness. If truth and depiction of nature are wanted, and dialect is a touch of nature, then it should not be disregarded. I follow nature as closely as I can, and try to make my people think and speak as they do in real life, and such success as I have achieved is due to this.”

The first published work of the author was “The Old Swimmin’ Hole” and “’Leven More Poems,” which appeared in 1883. Since that date he published a number of volumes. Among the most popular may be mentioned, “Armazindy,” which contains some of his best dialect and serious verses, including the famous Poe Poem, “Leonainie,” written and published in early life as one of the lost poems of Poe, and on which he deceived even Poe’s biographers, so accurate was he in mimicking the style of the author of the “Raven;” “Neighborly Poems;” “Sketches in Prose,” originally published as “The Boss Girl and Other Stories;” “Afterwhiles,” comprising sixty-two poems and sonnets, serious, pathetic, humorous anddialectic; “Pipes O’ Pan,” containing five sketches and fifty poems; “Rhymes of Childhood;” “Flying Islands of the Night,” a weird and grotesque drama in verse; “Green Fields and Running Brooks,” comprising one hundred and two poems and sonnets, dialectic, humorous and serious.

The poet has never married. He makes his home in Indianapolis, Indiana, with his sister, where his surroundings are of the most pleasant nature; and he is scarcely less a favorite with the children of the neighborhood than was the renowned child poet, Eugene Field, at his home. The devotion ofMr.Riley to his aged parents, whose last days he made the happiest and brightest of their lives, has been repeatedly commented upon in the current notices of the poet.Mr.Riley has personally met more of the American people, perhaps, than any other living poet. He is constantly “on the wing.” For about eight months out of every twelve for the past several years he has been on the lecture platform, and there are few of the more intelligent class of people in the leading cities of America, who have not availed themselves, at one time or another, to the treat of listening to his inimitable recitation of his poems. His short vacation in the summer—“his loafing days,” as he calls them—are spent with his relatives, and it is on these occasions that the genial poet is found at his best.

A BOY’SMOTHER.¹

FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”

MY mother she’s so good to me,Ef I wuz good as I could be,I couldn’t be as good—no,sir!—Can’tanyboy be good asher!She loves me when I’m glad er sad;She loves me when I’m good er bad;An’, what’s a funniest thing, she saysShe loves me when she punishes.I don’t like her to punish me.—Thatdon’t hurt,—but it hurts to seeHer cryin’.—Nen I cry; an’ nenWebothcry an’ be good again.She loves me when she cuts an’ sewsMy little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes;An’ when my Pa comes home to tea,She loves him most as much as me.She laughs an’ tells him all I said,An’ grabs me an’ pats my head;An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa,An’ love him purt’-nigh much as Ma.¹By Permission of the CenturyCo.

Y mother she’s so good to me,

Ef I wuz good as I could be,

I couldn’t be as good—no,sir!—

Can’tanyboy be good asher!

She loves me when I’m glad er sad;

She loves me when I’m good er bad;

An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says

She loves me when she punishes.

I don’t like her to punish me.—

Thatdon’t hurt,—but it hurts to see

Her cryin’.—Nen I cry; an’ nen

Webothcry an’ be good again.

She loves me when she cuts an’ sews

My little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes;

An’ when my Pa comes home to tea,

She loves him most as much as me.

She laughs an’ tells him all I said,

An’ grabs me an’ pats my head;

An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa,

An’ love him purt’-nigh much as Ma.

¹By Permission of the CenturyCo.

THOUGHTS ON THE LATEWAR.¹

FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”

IWAS for Union—you, ag’in’ it.’Pears like, to me, each side was winner,Lookin’ at now and all ’at ’s in it.Le’ ’s go to dinner.Le’ ’s kind o’ jes’ set down togetherAnd do some pardnership forgittin’—Talk, say, for instance, ’bout the weather,Or somepin’ fittin’.The war, you know, ’s all done and ended,And ain’t changed no p’ints o’ the compass;Both North and South the health’s jes’ splendidAs ’fore the rumpus.The old farms and the old plantationsStill ockipies the’r old positions.Le’ ’s git back to old situationsAnd old ambitions.Le’ ’s let up on this blame’, infernalTongue-lashin’ and lap-jacket vauntin’And git back home to the eternalCa’m we’re a-wantin’.Peace kind o’ sort o’ suits my diet—When women does my cookin’ for me,Ther’ wasn’t overly much pie etDurin’ the army.¹By Permission of the CenturyCo.

WAS for Union—you, ag’in’ it.

’Pears like, to me, each side was winner,

Lookin’ at now and all ’at ’s in it.

Le’ ’s go to dinner.

Le’ ’s kind o’ jes’ set down together

And do some pardnership forgittin’—

Talk, say, for instance, ’bout the weather,

Or somepin’ fittin’.

The war, you know, ’s all done and ended,

And ain’t changed no p’ints o’ the compass;

Both North and South the health’s jes’ splendid

As ’fore the rumpus.

The old farms and the old plantations

Still ockipies the’r old positions.

Le’ ’s git back to old situations

And old ambitions.

Le’ ’s let up on this blame’, infernal

Tongue-lashin’ and lap-jacket vauntin’

And git back home to the eternal

Ca’m we’re a-wantin’.

Peace kind o’ sort o’ suits my diet—

When women does my cookin’ for me,

Ther’ wasn’t overly much pie et

Durin’ the army.

¹By Permission of the CenturyCo.

OUR HIREDGIRL.¹

FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”

OUR hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann;An’ she can cook best things to eat!She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,An’ pours in somepin’ ’at ’s good an’ sweet;An’ nen she salts it all on topWith cinnamon; an’ nen she’ll stopAn’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow,In th’ old cook-stove, so ’s ’t wont slopAn’ git all spilled; nen bakes it, soIt’s custard-pie, first thing you know!An’ nen she’ll say,“Clear out o’ my way!They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done!”When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad,An’ says folks got to walk the chalkWhenshe’saround, er wisht they had!I play out on our porch an’ talkTo th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn;An’ he says, “Whew!” an’ nen leans onHis old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I swawn!Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies,It ’pears like I smell custard-pies!”An’ nenhe’llsay,“Clear out o’ my way!They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done!”Wunst our hired girl, when sheGot the supper, an’ we all et,An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ meAn’ Pa went wher’ the “Social” met,—An’ nen when we come home, an’ seeA light in the kitchen-door, an’ weHeerd a maccordeun, Pa says, “Lan’-O’-Gracious! who canherbeau be?”An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth AnnWuz parchin’ corn fer the Raggedy Man!Bettersay,“Clear out o’ the way!They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!Take the hint, an’ run, child, run!Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done!”¹By permission of The CenturyCo.

UR hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann;

An’ she can cook best things to eat!

She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,

An’ pours in somepin’ ’at ’s good an’ sweet;

An’ nen she salts it all on top

With cinnamon; an’ nen she’ll stop

An’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow,

In th’ old cook-stove, so ’s ’t wont slop

An’ git all spilled; nen bakes it, so

It’s custard-pie, first thing you know!

An’ nen she’ll say,

“Clear out o’ my way!

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!

Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!

Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done!”

When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad,

An’ says folks got to walk the chalk

Whenshe’saround, er wisht they had!

I play out on our porch an’ talk

To th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn;

An’ he says, “Whew!” an’ nen leans on

His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,

An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I swawn!

Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies,

It ’pears like I smell custard-pies!”

An’ nenhe’llsay,

“Clear out o’ my way!

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!

Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run!

Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done!”

Wunst our hired girl, when she

Got the supper, an’ we all et,

An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ me

An’ Pa went wher’ the “Social” met,—

An’ nen when we come home, an’ see

A light in the kitchen-door, an’ we

Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, “Lan’-

O’-Gracious! who canherbeau be?”

An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth Ann

Wuz parchin’ corn fer the Raggedy Man!

Bettersay,

“Clear out o’ the way!

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play!

Take the hint, an’ run, child, run!

Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done!”

¹By permission of The CenturyCo.

THE RAGGEDYMAN.¹

FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”

OTHE Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!He comes to our house every day,An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay;An’ he opens the shed—an’ we all ist laughWhen he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;An’ nen—ef our hired girl says he can—He milks the cow fer ’Lizabuth Ann.—Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!W’y, the Raggedy Man—he ’s ist so good,He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood;An’ nen he spades in our garden, too,An’ does most things ’tboyscan’t do.—He clumbed clean up in our big treeAn’ shooked a’ apple down fer me—An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer ’Lizabuth Ann—An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer the Raggedy Man.—Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!An’ the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes:Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves,An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ’at swallers therselves!An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,He showed me the hole ’at the Wunks is got,’At lives ’way deep in the ground, an’ canTurn into me, er ’Lizabuth Ann!Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!The Raggedy Man—one time, when heWuz makin’ a little bow’-n’-orry fer me,Says, “When you’re big like your Pa is,Airyougo’ to keep a fine store like his—An’ be a rich merchunt—an’ wear fine clothes?—Er whatairyou go’ to be, goodness knows?”An’ nen he laughed at ’Lizabuth Ann,An’ I says, “’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!—I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!”Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!¹By permission of The CenturyCo.

THE Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;

An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!

He comes to our house every day,

An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay;

An’ he opens the shed—an’ we all ist laugh

When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;

An’ nen—ef our hired girl says he can—

He milks the cow fer ’Lizabuth Ann.—

Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man?

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W’y, the Raggedy Man—he ’s ist so good,

He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood;

An’ nen he spades in our garden, too,

An’ does most things ’tboyscan’t do.—

He clumbed clean up in our big tree

An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me—

An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer ’Lizabuth Ann—

An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer the Raggedy Man.—

Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man?

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An’ the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,

An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes:

Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves,

An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ’at swallers therselves!

An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,

He showed me the hole ’at the Wunks is got,

’At lives ’way deep in the ground, an’ can

Turn into me, er ’Lizabuth Ann!

Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man?

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man—one time, when he

Wuz makin’ a little bow’-n’-orry fer me,

Says, “When you’re big like your Pa is,

Airyougo’ to keep a fine store like his—

An’ be a rich merchunt—an’ wear fine clothes?—

Er whatairyou go’ to be, goodness knows?”

An’ nen he laughed at ’Lizabuth Ann,

An’ I says, “’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!—

I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!”

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

¹By permission of The CenturyCo.

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