James Whitcomb Riley

“ KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE I Tell you what I like the best— 'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine,—some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else' II Orchard's where I'd ruther be— Needn't fence it in fer me!— Jes' the whole sky overhead, And the whole airth underneath— Sorto' so's a man kin breathe Like he ort, and kindo' has Elbow-room to keerlessly Sprawl out len'thways on the grass Where the shadders thick and soft As the kivvers on the bed Mother fixes in the loft Allus, when they's company! ”

“ THE HOME-GOING. We must get home—for we have been away
So long it seems forever and a day!
And O so very homesick we have grown,
The laughter of the world is like a moan
In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain,—
We must get home—we must get home again!
We must get home: It hurts so, staying here,
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear,
And where to wear wet lashes means, at best,
When most our lack, the least our hope of rest
When most our need of joy, the more our pain—
We must get home—we must get home again! ”

“ From the immemorial advent of our dear old Mother Goose, Literature has been especially catering to the juvenile needs and desires, and yet steadfastly overlooking, all the time, the very principles upon which Nature herself founds and presents this lawless little brood of hers—the children. It is not the children who are out of order; it is Literature. And not only is Literature out of order, but she is presumptuous; she is impudent. She takes Nature's children and revises and corrects them till "their own mother doesn't know them." This is literal fact. ”

“ Since He is the Master and may forgive.
Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon!—
Stay the hopes we are leaning on—
You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes
Looking down from the far-away skies,—
Smile upon us, and reach and take
Our worn souls Home for the old home's sake.—
And so Amen,—for our all seems gone
Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon.
JACK-IN-THE-BOX
(Grandfather, musing.)
In childish days! O memory,
You bring such curious things to me!—
Laughs to the lip—tears to the eye,
In looking on the gifts that lie
Like broken playthings scattered o'er
Imagination's nursery floor! ”

“ Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands
The flakes of their touches—first fluttering at
The bow—then the roses—the hair—and then that
Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat.
What artist on earth, with a model like this,
Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss,
Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair,
Nor the gold of her smile—O what artist could dare
To expect a result so fair? ”

“ On the hitching-block, boys, Grandly satisfied, See the old peacock, boys, On the sunny side! Robins in the peach-tree; Bluebirds in the pear; Blossoms over each tree In the orchard there! All the world's in joy, boys, Glad and glorified As a romping boy, boys, On the sunny side! Where's a heart as mellow? Where's a soul as free? Where is any fellow We would rather be? Just ourselves or none, boys, World around and wide, Laughing in the sun, boys, On the sunny side! ”

“ Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band;
I want to hear, high overhead, The Old Flag flap her wings
While all the Army, following, in chorus cheers and sings;
I want to hear the tramp and jar
Of patriots a million,
As gayly dancing off to war
As dancing a cotillion.
I want to be a Soldier!—
A Soldier!—
A Soldier!—
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band. ”

“ We compass the earth and the ocean, From the Orient's uttermost light, To where the last ripple in motion Lips hem of the skirt of the night—, But the Beautiful City evades us— No spire of it glints in the sun— No glad-bannered battlement shades us When all our Journey is done. Where lies it? We question and listen; We lean from the mountain, or mast, And see but dull earth, or the glisten Of seas inconceivably vast: The dust of the one blurs our vision, The glare of the other our brain, Nor city nor island Elysian In all of the land or the main! ”