Armazindy Page #3

James Whitcomb Riley poems book published in the 1894 book Armazindy and received very negative reviews that referred to poems like "The Little Dog-Woggy" and "Jargon-Jingle" as "drivel" and to Riley as a "worn out genius". Most of his growing number of critics suggested that he ignored the quality of the poems for the sake of making money.

• Poetry

								


  O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw
  The stars through the window, and listened with awe
  To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
  Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept:
  Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren,
  And the katydid listlessly chirrup again,
  Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
  Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle-bed.

  O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!
  With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread;
  Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above,
  Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of
  love;
  The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
  With the old fairy stories my memories keep
  Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o’er the head
  Once bowed o’er my own in the old trundle-bed.

NATURAL PERVERSITIES

  I am not prone to moralize
    In scientific doubt
  On certain facts that Nature tries
    To puzzle us about,—
  For I am no philosopher
    Of wise elucidation,
  But speak of things as they occur,
    From simple observation.

  I notice little things—to wit:—
    I never missed a train
  Because I didn’t run for it;
    I never knew it rain
  That my umbrella wasn’t lent,—
    Or, when in my possession,
  The sun but wore, to all intent,
    A jocular expression.

  I never knew a creditor
    To dun me for a debt
  But I was “cramped” or “bu’sted”; or
    I never knew one yet,
  When I had plenty in my purse,
    To make the least invasion,—
  As I, accordingly perverse,
    Have courted no occasion.

  Nor do I claim to comprehend
    What Nature has in view
  In giving us the very friend
    To trust we oughtn’t to.—
  But so it is: The trusty gun
    Disastrously exploded
  Is always sure to be the one
    We didn’t think was loaded.

  Our moaning is another’s mirth,—
    And what is worse by half,
  We say the funniest thing on earth
    And never raise a laugh:
  ’Mid friends that love us overwell,
    And sparkling jests and liquor,
  Our hearts somehow are liable
    To melt in tears the quicker.

  We reach the wrong when most we seek
    The right; in like effect,
  We stay the strong and not the weak—
    Do most when we neglect.—
  Neglected genius—truth be said—
    As wild and quick as tinder,
  The more you seek to help ahead
    The more you seem to hinder.

  I’ve known the least the greatest, too—
    And, on the selfsame plan,
  The biggest fool I ever knew
    Was quite a little man:
  We find we ought, and then we won’t—
    We prove a thing, then doubt it,—
  Know everything but when we don’t
    Know anything about it.

THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM

  He puts the poem by, to say
  His eyes are not themselves to-day!

  A sudden glamour o’er his sight—
  A something vague, indefinite—

  An oft-recurring blur that blinds
  The printed meaning of the lines,

  And leaves the mind all dusk and dim
  In swimming darkness—strange to him!

  It is not childishness, I guess,—
  Yet something of the tenderness

  That used to wet his lashes when
  A boy seems troubling him again;—

  The old emotion, sweet and wild,
  That drove him truant when a child,

  That he might hide the tears that fell
  Above the lesson—“Little Nell.”

  And so it is he puts aside
  The poem he has vainly tried

  To follow; and, as one who sighs
  In failure, through a poor disguise

  Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say
  His eyes are not themselves to-day.

WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS

  My dear old friends—It jes beats all,
    The way you write a letter
  So’s ever’ last line beats the first,
    And ever’ next-un’s better!—
  W’y, ever’ fool-thing you putt down
    You make so interestin’,
  A feller, readin’ of ’em all,
    Can’t tell which is the best-un.

  It’s all so comfortin’ and good,
    ’Pears-like I almost hear ye
  And git more sociabler, you know,
    And hitch my cheer up near ye
  And jes smile on ye like the sun
    Acrosst the whole per-rairies
  In Aprile when the thaw’s begun
    And country couples marries.

  It’s all so good-old-fashioned like
    To talk jes like we’re thinkin’,
  Without no hidin’ back o’ fans
    And giggle-un and winkin’,
  Ner sizin’ how each other’s dressed—
    Like some is allus doin’,—
  “Is Marthy Ellen’s basque be’n turned
    Er shore-enough a new-un!”—

  Er “ef Steve’s city-friend hain’t jes
    ‘A leetle kindo’-sorto’”—
  Er “wears them-air blame’ eye-glasses
    Jes ’cause he hadn’t ort to?”—
  And so straight on, dad-libitum,
    Tel all of us feels, someway,
  Jes like our “comp’ny” wuz the best
    When we git up to come ’way!

  That’s why I like old friends like you,—
    Jes ’cause you’re so abidin’.—
  Ef I wuz built to live “fer keeps,”
    My principul residin’
  Would be amongst the folks ’at kep’
    Me allus thinkin’ of ’em,
  And sorto’ eechin’ all the time
    To tell ’em how I love ’em.—

  Sich folks, you know, I jes love so
    I wouldn’t live without ’em,
  Er couldn’t even drap asleep
    But what I dreamp’ about ’em,—
  And ef we minded God, I guess
    We’d all love one another
  Jes like one famb’ly,—me and Pap
    And Madaline and Mother.

THE BLIND GIRL

  If I might see his face to-day!—
    He is so happy now!—To hear
  His laugh is like a roundelay—
    So ringing-sweet and clear!
  His step—I heard it long before
  He bounded through the open door
  To tell his marriage.—Ah! so kind—
  So good he is!—And I—so blind!

  But thus he always came to me—
    Me, first of all, he used to bring
  His sorrow to—his ecstasy—
    His hopes and everything;
  And if I joyed with him or wept,
  It was not long the music slept,—
  And if he sung, or if I played—
  Or both,—we were the braver made.

  I grew to know and understand
    His every word at every call,—
  The gate-latch hinted, and his hand
    In mine confessed it all:
  He need not speak one word to me—
  He need not sigh—I need not see,—
  But just the one touch of his palm,
  And I would answer—song or psalm.

  He wanted recognition—name—
    He hungered so for higher things,—
  The altitudes of power and fame,
    And all that fortune brings:
  Till, with his great heart fevered thus,
  And aching as impetuous,
  I almost wished sometimes that he
  Were blind and patient made, like me.

  But he has won!—I knew he would.—
    Once in the mighty Eastern mart,
  I knew his music only could
    Be sung in every heart!
  And when he proudly sent me this
  From out the great metropolis,
  I bent above the graven score
  And, weeping, kissed it o’er and o’er.—

  And yet not blither sing the birds
    Than this glad melody,—the tune
  As sweetly wedded with the words
    As flowers with middle-June;
  Had he not told me, I had known
  It was composed of love alone—
  His love for her.—And she can see
  His happy face eternally!—

  While I—O God, forgive, I pray!—
    Forgive me that I did so long
  To look upon his face to-day!—
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