The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Spray of Kentucky Pine, by George Douglass Sherley

A
Spray
Of
Kentucky
Pine

—Placed At The Feet Of The Dead Poet—
—James Whitcomb Riley—

By The Hand

Of the Man From

Down On The Farm—

—George Douglass Sherley

—On The Banks

Of Wolf Run—

—1916—

1916
Second Edition

From Ye Olden Printe Shope—

—James M. Byrnes, Esquire—

On Ye Long Highway

Called Shorte in Ye Goodly

Towne Of Lexington Kentucky

The Inscription Two-fold

To The Dead:

Reverently Inscribed

—To the Indiana-Born

World-Wide Poet—

—James Whitcomb Riley—

[!-- H2 anchor --]

—This Spray Of Kentucky Pine—

To The Living:

Also Lovingly Inscribed

By The Man From Down

On The Farm To The

Dear Lady Here On The

Banks Of Wolf Run

—His Mother—

On Grateful Commemoration

Of Her Eighty-Fifth Birthday

August 20, 1916

The Prelude

—A Note Explanatory—

With James Whitcomb Riley,

some years ago. This Man From Down On The Farm,

made a Reading Tour, of—in Population—more than

one-half of this Imperial Republic, including

the Cream of the Canadian Provinces.

Of that Tour, at some other time, in some more

leisurely hour, he desires, if able, to make

a full and faithful Record.

This, is but a humble Spray of Kentucky Pine,

placed at the feet of the Dead Poet!

According to a long established Custom,

the Man, in some way, in private print—

—for the Relative, for the Friend, for the Stranger too—

quietly Celebrates the various Red-Letter Days, of the

Dear Lady Here, On the Banks of Wolf Run—his Mother!

Her full Restoration, to her usual Good Health,

is a Source of much Joy, and the cause of much Gratitude.

The many Prayers made for her Recovery must have been of

much avail before the Great White Throne, of Infinite Mercy!

He is also deeply grateful, that the nearness of her

Eighty-Fifth Birthday, makes it possible for him,

to make an Inscription Two-fold, for the Dead,

for the Living—for the Dear Poet, for the Beloved Mother!

The linking of their names together, under this Spray of

Kentucky Pine—culled by a hand most loving—is like

unto finding the other half of a broken Chord, in some

Prelude Elusive: for James Whitcomb Riley, deeply

endeared himself, to the Dear Lady Here, while he and

her son were a long while away, on their Reading Tour.

Out of sheer Kindliness, out of Goodness of Heart, he often

wrote to her, delightful Letters of Good Cheer, filled with

a charming detail, with more than a trifle of over-Praise;

all of which, is most acceptable, to the heart of a too fond mother.

Recently, from his Winter Home in the South-land, he sent to

her, in response to one of these Farm Bubbles, a little

Bit of unpublished Verse, written before his hand had

failed him, reproduced for her—and others—in fac-simile.

Pray deem it not, all too presumptuous, this humble

Spray of Kentucky Pine!

It serves as a Reverent Tribute to the One!

As a Loving Commemoration to the Other!

The Interlude

—Holding Two Telegrams And A Plea—

I.

When the word came that

James Whitcomb Riley was Dead

this Telegram was sent to a near

Relative an astute Man of Affairs

who with the Head of a Great Publishing

House—a Prime Favorite from

his early Boyhood of the Poet—held

his well-placed Confidence in all

matters concerning the necessary

material Things of Life.

The mightiest Monarch of the Indiana Forest

lies prone upon his Native Soil!

This Man From Down On The Farm,

Reverently, sends this humble Spray of Kentucky Pine,

as a Symbol, ever-green, of his Lasting Love, for the Dead Poet:

as a Symbol, made manifest, of his deep Sympathy,

for You, for Yours.

II.

This Message was wired to a most

Gentle Lady who had meant

so much in so many ways to

James Whitcomb Riley

appealing as she did to the Best

to the Highest in his Nature and who

was indeed a "Ministering Angel"

when "Pain and Anguish" wrung

his brow, racked his frail body

where lingered its Tenant

his Immortal Soul!

Tenderly, Lovingly, let the Fair Elaine cherish

the Shield Invincible of her Sir Launcelot!

Some Day—Some Glad Day—she too, will go upward

with the Flood, in the Dark Barge, decked with Flowers:

clasping in her Beautiful Hand of Gentle Service,

the Lily of Fidelity: floating with the Mystic

Tide, to meet again—at Towered Camelot—

—her Gallant, her Waiting Knight!

For Love shares with the Soul its Precious Immortality!

III.

The Plea

—To The Relatives To The Intimate Friends of
James Whitcomb Riley—

Let Lockerbie Street, in its Lovely Brevity,

be held—if you will—as a Perpetual Reservation

for the Children of your Great, your Growing City,

holding the House, which for many years was the

Happy Home of the Poet, as a Sacred Shrine.

Let your fine Civic Building, now rising in its

Majesty—like the Towers of Illion—made possible

by his Generous Gift of the Site, made Glorious

by the touch of his hand, on its Great Cornerstone:

let it—if you will—proudly bear his Name.

Let either one, or both, of these Noble Things

be done, for the sake of his memory.

Let this, that, or any other form of a Memorial wait upon

the wisdom of your Choice: but no matter what is done;

how much is done; or how it is done; there is one Thing

which ought not to be left undone.

Every tender, slender needle, rising out of its

Globular Greenness, in this humble Spray of Kentucky Pine,

harbors this One Thought, this Single Plea!

This is the Plea:

Let James Whitcomb Riley,

skillfully cast in Bronze, simply clad in the plain

blue garb of a Union Soldier Lad a Private—

let him stand fur all Time, in your Circle, in the Centre,

in the Heart of your City, the beloved City of his adoption.

Let him stand there, under the shadow of that

Mighty Shaft, the Tribute of your Grand Commonwealth,

to her Valiant Sons—the Soldier, the Sailor.

Let him stand there, on a one-piece Pedestal

of Indiana Stone; Simple, Massive.

Thereon carve his Name, the date of his Birth;

the date of his Death; and these Immortal words:

"Well, Goodby, Jim:

Take Keer of Yourse'f!"

Read, re-read, and read again, the Poem.

That Poem is an American Classic!

It is the Epitome of Self-Sacrifice

for the Sake of a Vital Cause!

It is the one Idyl of the Middle-West!

It is thoroughly America!

It is intensely Indiana!

Pardon the Plea!

But Prepare the Way!

Turn the Page—read the Poem!

The Poem

Old man never had much to say—

'Ceptin' to Jim.—

And Jim was the wildest boy he had—

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!

Never heerd him speak but once

Er twice in my life,—and first time was

When the army broke out, and Jim he went,

The old man backin' him, fer three months;

And all 'at I heerd the old man say

Was jes' as we turned to start away,—

"Well, good-by, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f!"

'Peared-like, he was more satisfied

Jes' lookin' at Jim

And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see?

'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him!

And over and over I mind the day

The old man come and stood round in the way

While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim—

And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say,

"Well, good-by, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f!"

Never was nothin' about the farm

Disting'ished Jim;

Neighbors all ust to wonder why

The old man 'peered wrapped up in him;

But when Cap. Biggler he writ back

'At Jim was the bravest boy we had

In the whole dern rigiment, white er black.

And his fighten' good as his farmin' bad—

'At he had led, with a bullet clean

Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag

Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen,

The old man wound up a letter to him

'At Cap. read to us, 'at said: "Tell Jim

Good-by,

And take keer of hisse'f!"

Jim come home jes' long enough

To take the whim

'At he'd like to go back in the calvery—

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!

Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore,

Guessed he'd tackle her three years more.

And the old man give him a colt he'd raised,

And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade,

And laid around fer a week er so,

Watchin' Jim on dress-parade—

Tel finally he rid away,

And last he heerd was the old man say,

"Well, good-by, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f!"

Tuk the papers, the old man did,

A-watchin' fer Jim—

Fully believin' he'd make his mark

Some way—jes' wrapped up in him!—

And many a time the word 'u'd come

'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum—

At Petersburg, fer instunce, where

Jim rid right into their cannons there,

And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way,

And socked it home to the boys in gray,

As they scooted fer timber, and on and on—

Jim a lieutenant and one arm gone,

And the old man's words in his mind all day,—

"Well, good-by, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f!"

Think of a private now, perhaps,

We'll say like Jim,

'At's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!

Think of him—with the war plum, through.

And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue

A-laughin' the news down over Jim,

And the old man bendin' over him—

The surgeon turin' away with tears

'At hadn't leaked for years and years,

As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to

His father's, the old voice in his ears,—

"Well, good-by, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f!"

The Spray of Kentucky Pine

O! James Whitcomb Riley!

This Man From Down On The Farm—one-while

your constant Companion, in work most

Congenial, all-while your Faithful Friend—rejoices.

and is exceeding Glad, That All Is Well With You!

For no one knew, better than you,

the Wisdom, the Beauty, of Death!

No one the more fully realized

the Folly, the Futility, of human Grief!

You firmly believed, that he, who follows The Christ;

that he, who, in all Humility, bears the Cross; that

he, who, in all Gratitude, wears upon his unworthy brow,

the imprint of the Kiss Divine!—the Kiss of Forgiveness

Complete—you firmly believed, that he ought to be

brave enough, strong enough, to meet the Call,

whensoever, wheresoever, it may chance to come.

You firmly believed that the Call always

comes at the Right Moment: that Incompletion

Here, finds its Completement There: that every

human Life holds—like the Palace of Aladdin—its

unfinished Window: that the finite mind,

hampered by its mortality, is a clog to any

Completion, to any Earthly Perfection.

Therefore, feeling, believing, as you did Here,

now knowing, as you must know There,

this Man rejoices, and is exceeding Glad,

That All Is Well With You!

O! James Whitcomb Riley

Your Nature-on the surface—was

Simple, Honest, Open, Direct.

It was all of that but—it was More!

It was deeper than Tears!

It was wider than Laughter!

It was more profound, more subtle,

than either your spoken Word.

or, your written, your printed Thought.

You were infinitely better than the

Very Best that you ever did!

High Praise, but True!

Your nature was strangely Complex:

There was the Man!

There was the Poet!

There was the Mystic!