E-text prepared by Al Haines

RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

WITH PICTURES BY
WILL VAWTER

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright 1885, 1887, 1888, 1890,
1892, 1893, 1894, 1900, 1903, 1908,
1913, 1915
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

To
Young E. Allison—Bookman

The bookman he's a humming-bird—
His feasts are honey-fine,—
(With hi! hilloo!
And clover-dew
And roses lush and rare!)
His roses are the phrase and word
Of olden tomes divine;
(With hi! and ho!
And pinks ablow
And posies everywhere!)
The Bookman he's a humming-bird,—
He steals from song to song—
He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme,
And takes his heart along
And sacks all sweets of bursting verse
And ballads, throng on throng.
(With ho! and hey!
And brook and brae,
And brinks of shade and shine!)

A humming-bird the Bookman is—
Though cumbrous, gray and grim,—
(With hi! hilloo!
And honey-dew
And odors musty-rare!)
He bends him o'er that page of his
As o'er the rose's rim.
(With hi! and ho!
And pinks aglow
And roses everywhere!)
Ay, he's the featest humming-bird,
On airiest of wings
He poises pendent o'er the poem
That blossoms as it sings—
God friend him as he dips his beak
In such delicious things!
(With ho! and hey!
And world away
And only dreams for him!)

O friends of mine, whose kindly words come to me
Voiced only in lost lisps of ink and pen,
If I had power to tell the good you do me,
And how the blood you warm goes laughing through me,
My tongue would babble baby-talk again.

And I would toddle round the world to meet you—
Fall at your feet, and clamber to your knees
And with glad, happy hands would reach and greet you,
And twine my arms about you, and entreat you
For leave to weave a thousand rhymes like these—

A thousand rhymes enwrought of nought but presses
Of cherry-lip and apple-cheek and chin,
And pats of honeyed palms, and rare caresses,
And all the sweets of which as Fancy guesses
She folds away her wings and swoons therein.

PAGE
[ABE MARTIN] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
[AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
[ANCIENT PRINTERMAN, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
[ART AND POETRY] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
[BACK FROM TOWN] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
[BE OUR FORTUNES AS THEY MAY] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
[BECAUSE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152
[CHRISTMAS GREETING] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
[DAN O'SULLIVAN] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
[DEAD JOKE AND THE FUNNY MAN, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . . 180
[DOWN TO THE CAPITAL] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
[FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
[GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
[HER VALENTINE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
[HERR WEISER] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153
[HOBO VOLUNTARY, A] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
[I SMOKE MY PIPE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
[IN THE AFTERNOON] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
[IN THE HEART OF JUNE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
[JAMES B. MAYNARD] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
[LETTER TO A FRIEND, A] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
["LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP, THE"] . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
[LITTLE OLD POEM THAT NOBODY READS, THE] . . . . . . . . . 146
[MOTHER-SONG, A] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158
[MY BACHELOR CHUM] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
[MY FRIEND] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
[MY HENRY] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

[MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
[MY OLD FRIEND] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
[OLD BAND, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
[OLD CHUMS] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
[OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
[OLD JOHN HENRY] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
[OLD INDIANY] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185
[OLD MAN, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
[OLD MAN AND JIM, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
[OLD SCHOOL-CHUM, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
[OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
[POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . 42
[REACH YOUR HAND TO ME] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176
[SCOTTY] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
[SONG BY UNCLE SIDNEY, A] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
[STEPMOTHER, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162
[THAT NIGHT] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168
[TO ALMON KEEPER] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170
[TO THE QUIET OBSERVER] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
[TOM VAN ARDEN] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
[TOMMY SMITH] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66
[TRAVELING MAN, THE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
[UNCLE SIDNEY TO MARCELLUS] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
[WHAT "OLD SANTA" OVERHEARD] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
[WHEN OLD JACK DIED] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
[WHEN WE THREE MEET] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

ILLUSTRATIONS

["IT'S ALL JES' ARTIFICIAL, THIS-ERE HIGH-PRICED
LIFE OF OURS"] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
[OLD CHUMS--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
[SCOTTY--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
[THE OLD MAN--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
[IN YOUR REPOSEFUL GAZE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
[THE OLD MAN--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
[THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . 101
[O PRINTERMAN OF SALLOW FACE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
[THE OLD MAN AND JIM--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
["WELL, GOOD-BY, JIM"] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
[THE OLD MAN AND JIM--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
[THE OLD MAN AND JIM--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
[THE OLD MAN AND JIM--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
[THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
[THE OLD SCHOOL-CHUM--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
[MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . 114
[AH, FRIEND OF MINE, HOW GOES IT] . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
[MY JOLLY FRIEND'S SECRET--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . 119
[THE OLD BAND--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
[I WANT TO HEAR THE OLD BAND PLAY] . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
[THE OLD BAND--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125
[MY FRIEND--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126
[MY FRIEND--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
[THE TRAVELING MAN--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
[WHO HAVE MET HIM WITH SMILES AND WITH CHEER] . . . . . . 129
[DAN O'SULLIVAN--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132
[DAN O'SULLIVAN--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
[MY OLD FRIEND--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
[OLD JOHN HENRY--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
[A SMILIN' FACE AND A HEARTY HAND] . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
[CHRISTMAS GREETING--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
[ABE MARTIN--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142
[HIS MOUTH, LIKE HIS PIPE, 'S ALLUS GOIN'] . . . . . . . . 143
[THE LITTLE OLD POEM THAT NOBODY READS--HEADPIECE] . . . . 146
[THE LITTLE OLD POEM THAT NOBODY READS--TAILPIECE] . . . . 147
[IN THE AFTERNOON--HEADPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148
[YOU IN THE HAMMOCK; AND I, NEAR BY] . . . . . . . . . . . 149
[IN THE AFTERNOON--TAILPIECE] . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151

RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP

BACK FROM TOWN

Old friends allus is the best,
Halest-like and heartiest:
Knowed us first, and don't allow
We're so blame much better now!
They was standin' at the bars
When we grabbed "the kivvered kyars"
And lit out fer town, to make
Money—and that old mistake!

We thought then the world we went
Into beat "The Settlement,"
And the friends 'at we'd make there
Would beat any anywhere!—
And they do—fer that's their biz:
They beat all the friends they is—
'Cept the raal old friends like you
'At staid at home, like I'd ort to!

W'y, of all the good things yit
I ain't shet of, is to quit
Business, and git back to sheer
These old comforts waitin' here—
These old friends; and these old hands
'At a feller understands;
These old winter nights, and old
Young-folks chased in out the cold!

Sing "Hard Times'll come ag'in
No More!" and neighbors all jine in!
Here's a feller come from town
Wants that-air old fiddle down
From the chimbly!—Git the floor
Cleared fer one cowtillion more!—
It's poke the kitchen fire, says he,
And shake a friendly leg with me!

A HOBO VOLUNTARY

Oh, the hobo's life is a roving life;
It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight—
It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn
For the life of a hobo, never to return.

The hobo's heart it is light and free,
Though it's Sweethearts all, farewell, to thee!—
Farewell to thee, for it's far away
The homeless hobo's footsteps stray.

In the morning bright, or the dusk so dim,
It's any path is the one for him!
He'll take his chances, long or short,
For to meet his fate with a valiant heart.

Oh, it's beauty mops out the sidetracked-car,
And it's beauty-beaut' at the pigs-feet bar;
But when his drinks and his eats is made
Then the hobo shunts off down the grade.

He camps near town, on the old crick-bank,
And he cuts his name on the water-tank—
He cuts his name and the hobo sign,—
"Bound for the land of corn and wine!"

(Oh, it's I like friends that he'ps me through,
And the friends also that he'ps you, too,—
Oh, I like all friends, 'most every kind
But I don't like friends that don't like mine.)

There's friends of mine, when they gits the hunch,
Comes a swarmin' in, the blasted bunch,—
"Clog-step Jonny" and "Flat-wheel Bill"
And "Brockey Ike" from Circleville.

With "Cooney Ward" and "Sikes the Kid"
And old "Pop Lawson"—the best we had—
The rankest mug and the worst for lush
And the dandiest of the whole blame push.

Oh, them's the times I remembers best
When I took my chance with all the rest,
And hogged fried chicken and roastin' ears, too,
And sucked cheroots when the feed was through.

Oh, the hobo's way is the railroad line,
And it's little he cares for schedule time;
Whatever town he's a-striken for
Will wait for him till he gits there.

And whatever burg that he lands in
There's beauties there just thick for him—
There's beauty at "The Queen's Taste Lunch-stand," sure,
Or "The Last Chance Boardin' House" back-door.

He's lonesome-like, so he gits run in,
To git the hang o' the world ag'in;
But the laundry circles he moves in there
Makes him sigh for the country air,—

So it's Good-by gals! and he takes his chance
And wads hisself through the workhouse-fence:
He sheds the town and the railroad, too,
And strikes mud roads for a change of view.

The jay drives by on his way to town,
And looks on the hobo in high scorn,
And so likewise does the farmhands stare—
But what the haids does the hobo care!

He hits the pike, in the summer's heat
Or the winter's cold, with its snow and sleet—
With a boot on one foot, and one shoe—
Or he goes barefoot, if he chooses to.

But he likes the best, when the days is warm,
With his bum Prince-Albert on his arm—
He likes to size up a farmhouse where
They haint no man nor bulldog there.

Oh, he gits his meals wherever he can,
So natchurly he's a handy man—
He's a handy man both day and night,
And he's always blest with an appetite!

A tin o' black coffee, and a rhuburb pie—
Be they old and cold as charity—
They're hot-stuff enough for the pore hobo,
And it's "Thanks, kind lady, for to treat me so!"

Then he fills his pipe with a stub cigar
And swipes a coal from the kitchen fire,
And the hired girl says, in a smilin' tone,—
"It's good-by, John, if you call that goin'!"

Oh, the hobo's life is a roving life,
It robs pretty maids of their heart's delight—
It causes them to weep and it causes them to mourn
For the life of a hobo, never to return.

BE OUR FORTUNES AS THEY MAY

Be our fortunes as they may,
Touched with loss or sorrow,
Saddest eyes that weep to-day
May be glad to-morrow.

Yesterday the rain was here,
And the winds were blowing—
Sky and earth and atmosphere
Brimmed and overflowing.

But to-day the sun is out,
And the drear November
We were then so vexed about
Now we scarce remember.

Yesterday you lost a friend—
Bless your heart and love it!—
For you scarce could comprehend
All the aching of it;—

But I sing to you and say:
Let the lost friend sorrow—
Here's another come to-day,
Others may to-morrow.

I SMOKE MY PIPE

I can't extend to every friend
In need a helping hand—
No matter though I wish it so,
'Tis not as Fortune planned;
But haply may I fancy they
Are men of different stripe
Than others think who hint and wink,—
And so—I smoke my pipe!

A golden coal to crown the bowl—
My pipe and I alone,—
I sit and muse with idler views
Perchance than I should own:—
It might be worse to own the purse
Whose glutted bowels gripe
In little qualms of stinted alms;
And so I smoke my pipe.

And if inclined to moor my mind
And cast the anchor Hope,
A puff of breath will put to death
The morbid misanthrope
That lurks inside—as errors hide
In standing forms of type
To mar at birth some line of worth;
And so I smoke my pipe.

The subtle stings misfortune flings
Can give me little pain
When my narcotic spell has wrought
This quiet in my brain:
When I can waste the past in taste
So luscious and so ripe
That like an elf I hug myself;
And so I smoke my pipe.

And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds
I watch the phantom's flight,
Till alien eyes from Paradise
Smile on me as I write:
And I forgive the wrongs that live,
As lightly as I wipe
Away the tear that rises here;
And so I smoke my pipe.

UNCLE SIDNEY TO MARCELLUS

Marcellus, won't you tell us—
Truly tell us, if you can,—
What will you be, Marcellus,
When you get to be a man?

You turn, with never answer
But to the band that plays.—
O rapt and eerie dancer,
What of your future days?

Far in the years before us
We dreamers see your fame,
While song and praise in chorus
Make music of your name.

And though our dreams foretell us
As only visions can,
You must prove it, O Marcellus,
When you get to be a man!

A SONG BY UNCLE SIDNEY

O were I not a clod, intent
On being just an earthly thing,
I'd be that rare embodiment
Of Heart and Spirit, Voice and Wing,
With pure, ecstatic, rapture-sent,
Divinely-tender twittering
That Echo swoons to re-present,—
A bluebird in the Spring.

THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN

Kindly and warm and tender,
He nestled each childish palm
So close in his own that his touch was a prayer
And his speech a blessed psalm.

He has turned from the marvelous pages
Of many an alien tome—
Haply come down from Olivet,
Or out from the gates of Rome—

Set sail o'er the seas between him
And each little beckoning hand
That fluttered about in the meadows
And groves of his native land,—

Fluttered and flashed on his vision
As, in the glimmering light
Of the orchard-lands of childhood,
The blossoms of pink and white.

And there have been sobs in his bosom,
As out on the shores he stept,
And many a little welcomer
Has wondered why he wept.—

That was because, O children,
Ye might not always be
The same that the Savior's arms were wound
About, in Galilee.

FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR

Friend of a wayward hour, you came
Like some good ghost, and went the same;
And I within the haunted place
Sit smiling on your vanished face,
And talking with—your name.

But thrice the pressure of your hand—
First hail—congratulations—and
Your last "God bless you!" as the train
That brought you snatched you back again
Into the unknown land.

"God bless me?" Why, your very prayer
Was answered ere you asked it there,
I know—for when you came to lend
Me your kind hand, and call me friend,
God blessed me unaware.

MY HENRY

He's jes' a great, big, awk'ard, hulkin'
Feller,—humped, and sort o' sulkin'—
Like, and ruther still-appearin'—
Kind-as-ef he wuzn't keerin'
Whether school helt out er not—
That's my Henry, to a dot!

Allus kind o' liked him—whether
Childern, er growed-up together!
Fifteen year' ago and better,
'Fore he ever knowed a letter,
Run acrosst the little fool
In my Primer-class at school.

When the Teacher wuzn't lookin',
He'd be th'owin' wads; er crookin'
Pins; er sprinklin' pepper, more'n
Likely, on the stove; er borin'
Gimlet-holes up thue his desk—
Nothin' that boy wouldn't resk!

But, somehow, as I was goin'
On to say, he seemed so knowin',
Other ways, and cute and cunnin'—
Allus wuz a notion runnin'
Thue my giddy, fool-head he
Jes' had be'n cut out fer me!

Don't go much on prophesyin',
But last night whilse I wuz fryin'
Supper, with that man a-pitchin'
Little Marthy round the kitchen,
Think-says-I, "Them baby's eyes
Is my Henry's, jes' p'cise!"

A LETTER TO A FRIEND

The past is like a story
I have listened to in dreams
That vanished in the glory
Of the Morning's early gleams;
And—at my shadow glancing—
I feel a loss of strength,
As the Day of Life advancing
Leaves it shorn of half its length.

But it's all in vain to worry
At the rapid race of Time—
And he flies in such a flurry
When I trip him with a rhyme,
I'll bother him no longer
Than to thank you for the thought
That "my fame is growing stronger
As you really think it ought."

And though I fall below it,
I might know as much of mirth
To live and die a poet
Of unacknowledged worth;
For Fame is but a vagrant—
Though a loyal one and brave,
And his laurels ne'er so fragrant
As when scattered o'er the grave.

THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood
That now but in mem'ry I sadly review;
The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood,
The rail fence, and horses all tethered thereto;
The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple,
The doves that came fluttering out overhead
As it solemnly gathered the God-fearing people
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read.
The old-fashioned Bible—
The dust-covered Bible—
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

The blessed old volume! The face bent above it—
As now I recall it—is gravely severe,
Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love it
Makes grander the text through the lens of a tear,
And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,
The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his head
Like a haloed patriarch's leans as he listens
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read.
The old-fashioned Bible—
The dust-covered Bible—
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derision
And scoff the old book though it uselessly lies
In the dust of the past, while this newer revision
Lisps on of a hope and a home in the skies?
Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven?
Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said,
When so long He has, listening, leaned out of Heaven
To hear the old Bible my grandfather read?
The old-fashioned Bible—
The dust-covered Bible—
The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO

Say good-by er howdy-do—
What's the odds betwixt the two?
Comin'—goin', ev'ry day—
Best friends first to go away—
Grasp of hands you'd ruther hold
Than their weight in solid gold
Slips their grip while greetin' you.—
Say good-by er howdy-do!

Howdy-do, and then, good-by—
Mixes jes' like laugh and cry;
Deaths and births, and worst and best,
Tangled their contrariest;
Ev'ry jinglin' weddin'-bell
Skeerin' up some funer'l knell.—
Here's my song, and there's your sigh.—
Howdy-do, and then, good-by!

Say good-by er howdy-do—
Jes' the same to me and you;
'Taint worth while to make no fuss,
'Cause the job's put up on us!
Some One's runnin' this concern
That's got nothin' else to learn:
Ef He's willin', we'll pull through—
Say good-by er howdy-do!

WHEN WE THREE MEET

When we three meet? Ah! friend of mine
Whose verses well and flow as wine,—
My thirsting fancy thou dost fill
With draughts delicious, sweeter still
Since tasted by those lips of thine.

I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine
Of autumn, with a warmth divine,
Thrilled through as only I shall thrill
When we three meet.

I pledge thee, if we fast or dine,
We yet shall loosen, line by line,
Old ballads, and the blither trill
Of our-time singers—for there will
Be with us all the Muses nine
When we three meet.

"THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP"

When I was a little boy, long ago,
And spoke of the theater as the "show,"
The first one that I went to see,
Mother's brother it was took me—
(My uncle, of course, though he seemed to be
Only a boy—I loved him so!)
And ah, how pleasant he made it all!
And the things he knew that I should know!—
The stage, the "drop," and the frescoed wall;
The sudden flash of the lights; and oh,
The orchestra, with its melody,
And the lilt and jingle and jubilee
Of "The Little Man in the Tinshop"!

For Uncle showed me the "Leader" there,
With his pale, bleak forehead and long, black hair;
Showed me the "Second," and "'Cello," and "Bass,"
And the "B-Flat," pouting and puffing his face
At the little end of the horn he blew
Silvery bubbles of music through;
And he coined me names of them, each in turn,
Some comical name that I laughed to learn,
Clean on down to the last and best,—
The lively little man, never at rest,
Who hides away at the end of the string,
And tinkers and plays on everything,—
That's "The Little Man in the Tinshop"!

Raking a drum like a rattle of hail,
Clinking a cymbal or castanet;
Chirping a twitter or sending a wail
Through a piccolo that thrills me yet;
Reeling ripples of riotous bells,
And tipsy tinkles of triangles—
Wrangled and tangled in skeins of sound
Till it seemed that my very soul spun round,
As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward my
Radiant uncle, who snapped his eye
And said, with the courtliest wave of his hand,
"Why, that little master of all the band
Is 'The Little Man in the Tinshop'!

"And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful,
And Paganini, and Ole Bull,
Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn,
And fair Parepa, whose matchless tone
Karl, her master, with magic bow,
Blent with the angels', and held her so
Tranced till the rapturous Infinite—
And I've heard arias, faint and low,
From many an operatic light
Glimmering on my swimming sight
Dimmer and dimmer, until, at last,
I still sit, holding my roses fast
For 'The Little Man in the Tinshop.'"

Oho! my Little Man, joy to you—
And yours—and theirs—your lifetime through!
Though I've heard melodies, boy and man,
Since first "the show" of my life began,
Never yet have I listened to
Sadder, madder, or gladder glees
Than your unharmonied harmonies;
For yours is the music that appeals
To all the fervor the boy's heart feels—
All his glories, his wildest cheers,
His bravest hopes, and his brightest tears;
And so, with his first bouquet, he kneels
To "The Little Man in the Tinshop."

TOMMY SMITH

Dimple-cheeked and rosy-lipped,
With his cap-rim backward tipped,
Still in fancy I can see
Little Tommy smile on me—
Little Tommy Smith.

Little unsung Tommy Smith—
Scarce a name to rhyme it with;
Yet most tenderly to me
Something sings unceasingly—
Little Tommy Smith.

On the verge of some far land
Still forever does he stand,
With his cap-rim rakishly
Tilted; so he smiles on me—
Little Tommy Smith.

Elder-blooms contrast the grace
Of the rover's radiant face—
Whistling back, in mimicry,
"Old—Bob—White!" all liquidly—
Little Tommy Smith.

O my jaunty statuette
Of first love, I see you yet.
Though you smile so mistily,
It is but through tears I see,
Little Tommy Smith.

But, with crown tipped back behind,
And the glad hand of the wind
Smoothing back your hair, I see
Heaven's best angel smile on me,—
Little Tommy Smith.

TOM VAN ARDEN

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Our warm fellowship is one
Far too old to comprehend
Where its bond was first begun:
Mirage-like before my gaze
Gleams a land of other days,
Where two truant boys, astray,
Dream their lazy lives away.

There's a vision, in the guise
Of Midsummer, where the Past
Like a weary beggar lies
In the shadow Time has cast;
And as blends the bloom of trees
With the drowsy hum of bees,
Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
All the pleasures we have known
Thrill me now as I extend
This old hand and grasp your own—
Feeling, in the rude caress,
All affection's tenderness;
Feeling, though the touch be rough,
Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour:
Fill your pipe, and taste the wine—
Warp your face, if it be sour,
I can spare a smile from mine;
If it sharpen up your wit,
Let me feel the edge of it—
I have eager ears to lend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?
Are we all that we pretend
In the jolly life we lead?—
Bachelors, we must confess,
Boast of "single blessedness"
To the world, but not alone—
Man's best sorrow is his own!

And the saddest truth is this,—
Life to us has never proved
What we tasted in the kiss
Of the women we have loved:
Vainly we congratulate
Our escape from such a fate
As their lying lips could send,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,
Ripen sweetest, I contend,
As the frost falls over them:
Your regard for me to-day
Makes November taste of May,
And through every vein of rhyme
Pours the blood of summer-time.

When our souls are cramped with youth
Happiness seems far away
In the future, while, in truth,
We look back on it to-day
Through our tears, nor dare to boast,—
"Better to have loved and lost!"
Broken hearts are hard to mend,
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
I grow prosy, and you tire;
Fill the glasses while I bend
To prod up the failing fire. . . .
You are restless:—I presume
There's a dampness in the room.—
Much of warmth our nature begs,
With rheumatics in our legs! . . .

Humph! the legs we used to fling
Limber-jointed in the dance,
When we heard the fiddle ring
Up the curtain of Romance,
And in crowded public halls
Played with hearts like jugglers' balls.—
Feats of mountebanks, depend!—
Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
Pardon, then, this theme of mine:
While the firelight leaps to lend
Higher color to the wine,—
I propose a health to those
Who have homes, and home's repose,
Wife- and child-love without end!
. . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run
When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun;
It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not,
Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot;

It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black,
And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;—
But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail,
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay,
And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway;
I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall,
That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all;
I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can;
I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman;
But most I like—with you, my boy—our old friend Neverfail,
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

MY BACHELOR CHUM

A corpulent man is my bachelor chum,
With a neck apoplectic and thick—
An abdomen on him as big as a drum,
And a fist big enough for the stick;
With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case,
And a wobble uncertain—as though
His little bow-legs had forgotten the pace
That in youth used to favor him so.

He is forty, at least; and the top of his head
Is a bald and a glittering thing;
And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as red
As three rival roses in spring;

His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in,
And his laugh is so breezy and bright
That it ripples his features and dimples his chin
With a billowy look of delight.

He is fond of declaring he "don't care a straw"—
That "the ills of a bachelor's life
Are blisses, compared with a mother-in-law
And a boarding-school miss for a wife!"
So he smokes and he drinks, and he jokes and he winks,
And he dines and he wines, all alone,
With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinks
Of the comforts he never has known.

But up in his den—(Ah, my bachelor chum!)—
I have sat with him there in the gloom,
When the laugh of his lips died away to become
But a phantom of mirth in the room.
And to look on him there you would love him, for all
His ridiculous ways, and be dumb
As the little girl-face that smiles down from the wall
On the tears of my bachelor chum.

ART AND POETRY

TO HOMER DAVENPORT

Wess he says, and sort o' grins,
"Art and Poetry is twins!

"Yit, if I'd my pick, I'd shake
Poetry, and no mistake!

"Pictures, allus, 'peared to me,
Clean laid over Poetry!

"Let me draw, and then, i jings,
I'll not keer a straw who sings.

"'F I could draw as you have drew,
Like to jes' swop pens with you!

"Picture-drawin' 's my pet vision
Of Life-work in Lands Elysian.

"Pictures is first language we
Find hacked out in History.

"Most delight we ever took
Was in our first Picture-book.

"'Thout the funny picture-makers,
They'd be lots more undertakers!

"Still, as I say, Rhymes and Art
'Smighty hard to tell apart.

"Songs and pictures go together
Same as birds and summer weather."

So Wess says, and sort o' grins,
"Art and Poetry is twins."

DOWN TO THE CAPITAL

I' be'n down to the Capital at Washington, D. C.,
Where Congerss meets and passes on the pensions ort to be
Allowed to old one-legged chaps, like me, 'at sence the war
Don't wear their pants in pairs at all—and yit how proud we are!

Old Flukens, from our deestrick, jes' turned in and tuck and made
Me stay with him whilse I was there; and longer 'at I stayed
The more I kep' a-wantin' jes' to kind o' git away,
And yit a-feelin' sociabler with Flukens ever' day.

You see I'd got the idy—and I guess most folks agrees—
'At men as rich as him, you know, kin do jes' what they please;
A man worth stacks o' money, and a Congerssman and all,
And livin' in a buildin' bigger'n Masonic Hall!

Now mind, I'm not a-faultin' Fluke—he made his money square:
We both was Forty-niners, and both bu'sted gittin' there;
I weakened and onwindlassed, and he stuck and stayed and made
His millions; don't know what I'm worth untel my pension's paid.

But I was goin' to tell you—er a-ruther goin' to try
To tell you how he's livin' now: gas burnin' mighty nigh
In ever' room about the house; and ever' night, about,
Some blame reception goin' on, and money goin' out.

They's people there from all the world—jes' ever' kind 'at lives,
Injuns and all! and Senators, and Ripresentatives;
And girls, you know, jes' dressed in gauze and roses, I declare,
And even old men shamblin' round a-waltzin' with 'em there!

And bands a-tootin' circus-tunes, 'way in some other room
Jes' chokin' full o' hothouse plants and pinies and perfume;
And fountains, squirtin' stiddy all the time; and statutes, made
Out o' puore marble, 'peared-like, sneakin' round there in the shade.

And Fluke he coaxed and begged and pled with me to take a hand
And sashay in amongst 'em—crutch and all, you understand;
But when I said how tired I was, and made fer open air,
He follered, and tel five o'clock we set a-talkin' there.

"My God!" says he—Fluke says to me, "I'm tireder'n you!
Don't putt up yer tobacker tel you give a man a chew.
Set back a leetle furder in the shadder—that'll do;
I'm tireder'n you, old man; I'm tireder'n you.

"You see that-air old dome," says he, "humped up ag'inst the sky?
It's grand, first time you see it; but it changes, by and by,
And then it stays jes' thataway—jes' anchored high and dry
Betwixt the sky up yender and the achin' of yer eye.

"Night's purty; not so purty, though, as what it ust to be
When my first wife was livin'. You remember her?" says he.
I nodded-like, and Fluke went on, "I wonder now ef she
Knows where I am—and what I am—and what I ust to be?

"That band in there!—I ust to think 'at music couldn't wear
A feller out the way it does; but that ain't music there—
That's jes' a' imitation, and like ever'thing, I swear,
I hear, er see, er tetch, er taste, er tackle anywhere!

Riley Songs of Friendship

RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

WITH PICTURES BY
WILL VAWTER

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright 1885, 1887, 1888, 1890,
1892, 1893, 1894, 1900, 1903, 1908,
1913, 1915
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

To
Young E. Allison—Bookman

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP

BACK FROM TOWN

A HOBO VOLUNTARY

BE OUR FORTUNES AS THEY MAY

I SMOKE MY PIPE

UNCLE SIDNEY TO MARCELLUS

A SONG BY UNCLE SIDNEY

THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN

FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR

MY HENRY

A LETTER TO A FRIEND

THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE

GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO

WHEN WE THREE MEET

"THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP"

TOMMY SMITH

TOM VAN ARDEN

OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

MY BACHELOR CHUM

ART AND POETRY

TO HOMER DAVENPORT

DOWN TO THE CAPITAL

Riley Songs of Friendship

RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

WITH PICTURES BYWILL VAWTER

NEW YORKGROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS

Copyright 1885, 1887, 1888, 1890,1892, 1893, 1894, 1900, 1903, 1908,1913, 1915JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

ToYoung E. Allison—Bookman

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

RILEY SONGS OF FRIENDSHIP

BACK FROM TOWN

A HOBO VOLUNTARY

BE OUR FORTUNES AS THEY MAY

I SMOKE MY PIPE

UNCLE SIDNEY TO MARCELLUS

A SONG BY UNCLE SIDNEY

THE POET'S LOVE FOR THE CHILDREN

FRIEND OF A WAYWARD HOUR

MY HENRY

A LETTER TO A FRIEND

THE OLD-FASHIONED BIBLE

GOOD-BY ER HOWDY-DO

WHEN WE THREE MEET

"THE LITTLE MAN IN THE TINSHOP"

TOMMY SMITH

TOM VAN ARDEN

OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

MY BACHELOR CHUM

ART AND POETRY

TO HOMER DAVENPORT

DOWN TO THE CAPITAL

WITH PICTURES BY
WILL VAWTER

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright 1885, 1887, 1888, 1890,
1892, 1893, 1894, 1900, 1903, 1908,
1913, 1915
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

To
Young E. Allison—Bookman