Armazindy Page #9

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

								

    Can’t stay still!—Wuz prosper’n’ here,
  But lit out on furder West
    Somers on a ranch, last year:
            Never heard
            Nary a word
    How he liked it, tel to-day,
    Got this card, reads thisaway:—

  “Dad-burn climate out here makes
    Me homesick all Winter long,
  And when Springtime comes, it takes
    Two pee-wees to sing one song,—
            One sings ‘pee,’
            And the other one ‘wee!’
    Stay right where you air, old pard,—
    Wisht I wuz this postal card!”

AN EMPTY GLOVE

I

  An empty glove—long withering in the grasp
    Of Time’s cold palm. I lift it to my lips,—
  And lo, once more I thrill beneath its clasp,
    In fancy, as with odorous finger-tips
      It reaches from the years that used to be
      And proffers back love, life and all, to me.

II

  Ah! beautiful she was beyond belief:
    Her face was fair and lustrous as the moon’s;
  Her eyes—too large for small delight or grief,—
    The smiles of them were Laughter’s afternoons;
      Their tears were April showers, and their love—
      All sweetest speech swoons ere it speaks thereof.

III

  White-fruited cocoa shown against the shell
    Were not so white as was her brow below
  The cloven tresses of the hair that fell
    Across her neck and shoulders of nude snow;
      Her cheeks—chaste pallor, with a crimson stain—
      Her mouth was like a red rose rinsed with rain.

IV

  And this was she my fancy held as good—
    As fair and lovable—in every wise
  As peerless in pure worth of womanhood
    As was her wondrous beauty in men’s eyes.—
      Yet, all alone, I kiss this empty glove—
      The poor husk of the hand I loved—and love.

OUR OWN

  They walk here with us, hand-in-hand;
    We gossip, knee-by-knee;
  They tell us all that they have planned—
    Of all their joys to be,—
  And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day,
    All desolate we cry
  Across wide waves of voiceless graves—
    Good-bye! Good-bye! Good-bye!

MAKE-BELIEVE AND CHILD-PLAY

THE FROG

  Who am I but the Frog—the Frog!
    My realm is the dark bayou,
  And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log
    That the poison-vine clings to—
  And the black-snakes slide in the slimy tide
    Where the ghost of the moon looks blue.

  What am I but a King—a King!—
    For the royal robes I wear—
  A sceptre, too, and a signet-ring,
    As vassals and serfs declare:
  And a voice, god wot, that is equalled not
    In the wide world anywhere!

  I can talk to the Night—the Night!—
    Under her big black wing
  She tells me the tale of the world outright,
    And the secret of everything;
  For she knows you all, from the time you crawl,
    To the doom that death will bring.

  The Storm swoops down, and he blows—and blows,—
    While I drum on his swollen cheek,
  And croak in his angered eye that glows
    With the lurid lightning’s streak;
  While the rushes drown in the watery frown
    That his bursting passions leak.

  And I can see through the sky—the sky—
    As clear as a piece of glass;
  And I can tell you the how and why
    Of the things that come to pass—
  And whether the dead are there instead,
    Or under the graveyard grass.

  To your Sovereign lord all hail—all hail!—
    To your Prince on his throne so grim!
  Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail
    Their heads in the dust to him;
  And the wide world sing: Long live the King,
    And grace to his royal whim!

“TWIGGS AND TUDENS”

If my old school-chum and room-mate John Skinner is alive to-day—and no doubt he is alive, and quite so, being, when last heard from, the very alert and effective Train Dispatcher at Butler, Indiana,—he will not have forgotten a certain night in early June (the 8th) of 1870, in “Old Number ’Leven” of the Dunbar House, Greenfield, when he and I sat the long night through, getting ready a famous issue of our old school-paper, “The Criterion.” And he will remember, too, the queer old man who occupied, but that one night, the room just opposite our own, Number 13. For reasons wholly aside from any superstitious dread connected with the numerals, 13 was not a desirable room; its locality was alien to all accommodations, and its comforts, like its furnishings, were extremely meagre. In fact, it was the room usually assigned to the tramp-printer, who, in those days, was an institution; or again, it was the local habitation of the oft-recurring transient customer who was too incapacitated to select a room himself when he retired—or rather, when he was personally retired by “the hostler,” as the gentlemanly night-clerk of that era was habitually designated.

As both Skinner and myself—between fitful terms of school—had respectively served as “printer’s devil” in the two rival newspaper offices of the town, it was natural for us to find a ready interest in anything pertaining to the newspaper business; and so it was, perhaps, that we had been selected, by our own approval and that of our fellow-students of The Graded Schools, to fill the rather exalted office of editing “The Criterion.” Certain it is that the rather abrupt rise from the lowly duties of the “roller” to the editorial management of a paper of our own (even if issued in handwriting) we accepted as a natural right; and, vested in our new power of office, we were largely “shaping the whisper of the throne” about our way.

And upon this particular evening it was, as John and I had fairly squared ourselves for the work of the night, that we heard the clatter and shuffle of feet on the side-stairs, and, an instant later, the hostler establishing some poor unfortunate in 13, just across the hall.

“Listen!” said John, as we heard an old man’s voice through the open transom of our door,—“listen at that!”

It was an utterance peculiarly refined, in language as well as intonation. A low, mild, rather apologetic voice, gently assuring the hostler that “everything was very snug and comfortable indeed—so far as the compartment was concerned—but would not the attendant kindly supply a better light, together with pen-and-ink—and just a sheet or two of paper,—if he would be so very good as to find a pardon for so very troublesome a guest.”

“Hain’t no writin’-paper,” said the hostler, briefly,—“and the big lamps is all in use. These fellers here in ’Leven might let you have some paper and—Hain’t you got a lead-pencil?”

“Oh, no matter!” came the impatient yet kindly answer of the old voice—“no matter at all, my good fellow!—Good night—good night!”

We waited till the sullen, clumpy footsteps down the hall and stair had died away.

Then Skinner, with a handful of foolscap, opened our door; and, with an indorsing smile from me, crossed the hall and tapped at 13—was admitted—entered, and very quietly closed the door behind him, evidently that I might not be disturbed.

I wrote on in silence for quite a time. It was, in fact, a full half-hour before John had returned,—and with a face and eye absolutely blazing with delight.
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