Armazindy Page #6

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

								

    We decorate to-day:

  And in the holy silence reigning round,
    While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere,
  Where loyal souls of love and faith are found,
    Thank God that Peace is here!

  And let each angry impulse that may start,
    Be smothered out of every loyal breast;
  And, rocked within the cradle of the heart,
    Let every sorrow rest.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

  Up and down old Brandywine,
    In the days ’at’s past and gone—
  With a dad-burn hook-and-line
    And a saplin’-pole—i swawn!
      I’ve had more fun, to the square
      Inch, than ever anywhere!
      Heaven to come can’t discount mine,
      Up and down old Brandywine!

  Hain’t no sense in wishin’—yit
    Wisht to goodness I could jes
  “Gee” the blame’ world round and git
    Back to that old happiness!—
      Kindo’ drive back in the shade
      “The old Covered Bridge” there laid
      ’Crosst the crick, and sorto’ soak
      My soul over, hub and spoke!

  Honest, now!—it hain’t no dream
    ’At I’m wantin’,—but the fac’s
  As they wuz; the same old stream,
    And the same old times, i jacks!—
      Gimme back my bare feet—and
      Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!—
      And let hottest dog-days shine
      Up and down old Brandywine!

  In and on betwixt the trees
    ’Long the banks, pour down yer noon,
  Kindo’ curdled with the breeze
    And the yallerhammer’s tune;
      And the smokin’, chokin’ dust
      O’ the turnpike at its wusst—
      Saturd’ys, say, when it seems
      Road’s jes jammed with country teams!

  Whilse the old town, fur away
    ’Crosst the hazy pastur’-land,
  Dozed-like in the heat o’ day
    Peaceful’ as a hired hand.
      Jolt the gravel th’ough the floor
      O’ the ole bridge!—grind and roar
      With yer blame’ percession-line—
      Up and down old Brandywine!

  Souse me and my new straw hat
    Off the foot-log!—what I care?—
  Fist shoved in the crown o’ that—
    Like the old Clown ust to wear.—
      Wouldn’t swop it fer a’ old
      Gin-u-wine raal crown o’ gold!—
      Keep yer King ef you’ll gim me
      Jes the boy I ust to be!

  Spill my fishin’-worms! er steal
    My best “goggle-eye!”—but you
  Can’t lay hands on joys I feel
    Nibblin’ like they ust to do!
      So, in memory, to-day
      Same old ripple lips away
      At my “cork” and saggin’ line,
      Up and down old Brandywine!

  There the logs is, round the hill,
    Where “Old Irvin” ust to lift
  Out sunfish from daylight till
    Dewfall—’fore he’d leave “The Drift”
      And give us a chance—and then
      Kindo’ fish back home again,
      Ketchin’ ’em jes left and right
      Where we hadn’t got “a bite”!

  Er, ’way windin’ out and in,—
    Old path th’ough the iurnweeds
  And dog-fennel to yer chin—
    Then come suddent, th’ough the reeds
      And cattails, smack into where
      Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare
      Us clean ’crosst the County-line,
      Up and down old Brandywine!

  But the dim roar o’ the dam
    It ’ud coax us furder still
  To’rds the old race, slow and ca’m,
    Slidin’ on to Huston’s mill—
      Where, I ’spect, “the Freeport crowd”
      Never warmed to us er ’lowed
      We wuz quite so overly
      Welcome as we aimed to be.

  Still it ’peared-like ever’thing—
    Fur away from home as there—
  Had more relish-like, i jing!—
    Fish in stream, er bird in air!
      O them rich old bottom-lands,
      Past where Cowden’s School-house stands!
      Wortermelons!—master-mine!
      Up and down old Brandywine!

  And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o’ raw
    Gold and green,—jes oozy th’ough
  With ripe yallar—like you’ve saw
    Custard-pie with no crust to:
      And jes gorges o’ wild plums
      Till a feller’d suck his thumbs
      Clean up to his elbows! My!—
      Me some more er lem me die!

  Up and down old Brandywine!...
    Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!—
  Flick me with a pizen-vine
    And yell “Yip!” and lem me loose!
      —Old now as I then wuz young,
      ’F I could sing as I have sung,
      Song ’ud shorely ring dee-vine
      Up and down old Brandywine!

THREE SINGING FRIENDS

I

LEE O. HARRIS

  Schoolmaster and Songmaster! Memory
    Enshrines thee with an equal love, for thy
    Duality of gifts,—thy pure and high
  Endowments—Learning rare, and Poesy.
  These were as mutual handmaids, serving thee,
    Throughout all seasons of the years gone by,
    With all enduring joys ’twixt earth and sky—
  In turn shared nobly with thy friends and me.
  Thus is it that thy clear song, ringing on,
    Is endless inspiration, fresh and free
      As the old Mays at verge of June sunshine;
  And musical as then, at dewy dawn,
    The robin hailed us, and all twinklingly
      Our one path wandered under wood and vine.

II

BENJAMIN S. PARKER

  Thy rapt song makes of Earth a realm of light
    And shadow mystical as some dreamland
    Arched with unfathomed azure—vast and grand
  With splendor of the morn; or dazzling bright
  With orient noon; or strewn with stars of night
    Thick as the daisies blown in grasses fanned
    By odorous midsummer breezes and
  Showered over by all bird-songs exquisite.
  This is thy voiced beatific art—
    To make melodious all things below,
      Calling through them, from far, diviner space,
  Thy clearer hail to us.—The faltering heart
    Thou cheerest; and thy fellow-mortal so
      Fares onward under Heaven with lifted face.

III

JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS

  Bard of our Western world!—its prairies wide,
    With edging woods, lost creeks and hidden ways;
    Its isolated farms, with roundelays
  Of orchard warblers heard on every side;
  Its cross-road school-house, wherein still abide
    Thy fondest memories,—since there thy gaze
    First fell on classic verse; and thou, in praise
  Of that, didst find thine own song glorified.
  So singing, smite the strings and counterchange
    The lucently melodious drippings of
      Thy happy harp, from airs of “Tempe Vale,”
  To chirp and trill of lowliest flight and range,
    In praise of our To-day and home and love—
      Thou meadow-lark no less than nightingale.

A NOON LULL

  ’Possum in de ’tater-patch;
    Chicken-hawk a-hangin’
  Stiddy ’bove de stable-lot,
    An’ cyarpet-loom a-bangin’!
  Hi! Mr. Hoppergrass, chawin’ yo’ terbacker,
  Flick ye wid er buggy-whirp yer spit er little blacker!

  Niggah in de roas’in’-yeers,
    Whiskers in de shuckin’;
  Weasel croppin’ mighty shy,
    But ole hen a-cluckin’!
  —What’s got de matter er de mule-colt now?
  Drapt in de turnip-hole, chasin’ f’um de cow!

A WINDY DAY

  The dawn was a dawn of splendor,
    And the blue of the morning skies
  Was as placid and deep and tender
    As the blue of a baby’s eyes;
  The sunshine flooded the mountain,
    And flashed over land and sea
  Like the spray of a glittering fountain.—
    But the wind—the wind—Ah me!

  Like a weird invisible spirit,
    It swooped in its airy flight;
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