On one of his birthdays the school children of Indianapolis decided to march in a great throng by his house and greet him as he sat by his window in an invalid’s chair. To their sorrow, when this birthday came it rained hard all day––so hard that they could not think of going out in the storm. But in the high school was a group of pupils who decided that no storm could keep them from showing their love. Accordingly, early in the evening, in the pouring rain, they gathered about his home and in clear, ringing tones sang several of his beautiful poems that had been set to music. So delighted was the great poet that he invited them in and they packed his large sitting room. And what an hour they had together! As they sang he forgot his suffering and was young again. Before they left he recited several of his poems in such a pleasing and impressive manner that I am sure those present will never forget it. One of these, and one which is a great favorite, is entitled The Old Swimmin’-Hole.

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THE OLD SWIMMIN’-HOLE
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! Whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc’t ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin’ out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of Youth is beyond our controle,
And it’s hard to part ferever with the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin’ up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time’s tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin’-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the long, lazy days
When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o’ fun on hands at the old swimmin’-hole
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin’-hole.
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Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin’-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be––
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like, the old swimmin’-hole.

Though Mr. Riley is no longer with us, he still has the same big place in our hearts. Why do we love him so? Is it not because he was able to reach our hearts as few have done; because he was able in all his poems to speak the word that we needed most?

James Whitcomb Riley was born at Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His father was a lawyer and farmer combined. While he did the legal work of the village, he also owned a farm at the edge of town. As he was a good speaker he was in constant demand in that part of the state to speak on all kinds of occasions. Generally, on these trips, he took young James along; thus it was that the lad acquired a desire to travel that it took years of his after life to satisfy.

It was from his mother that James received his talent for writing poetry. Though never a poet, she was exceedingly apt, as were all her people, in writing rhymes. The beautiful tributes that Riley, later in life, paid his mother show that she always understood and helped him.

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Greenfield, during the boyhood days of Riley, was not the kind of town we think of as producing poets. There were no mountains to kindle the imagination, and no babbling brooks to encourage meditation. In every direction were broad stretches of level land largely covered with forests that still remained untouched. Between these forest stretches were patches of land that were cultivated by hand; for at that time there was but little farm machinery. The greatest single task of the people was to clear the forests and bring the soil under cultivation. Greenfield was, therefore, in part an agricultural town and in part a lumber town. Like most small towns, it was slow-moving and uninteresting. The scenes most frequented were the loafing places.

As there was very little in Greenfield for a lad to do, James’ father very often pressed him into service planting and cultivating corn, but he never liked it. While at first we are inclined to regret this, we wonder, had farm life appealed to him, whether he would have made a great poet.

Years later in speaking of his lack of experience in real farm life Mr. Riley says: “Sometimes some real country boy gives me the round turn on some farm points. For instance, here comes one slipping up to me, ‘You never lived on a farm,’ he says. ‘Why not’? says I. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘a turkey-cock gobbles, but he doesn’t ky-ouck as your poetry says.’ He has me right there. It’s the turkey-hen that ky-oucks. ‘Well, you’ll 87 never hear another turkey-cock of mine ky-ouckin,’ says I. But generally I hit on the right symbols. I get the frost on the pumpkin and the fodder in the shock; and I see the frost on the old axe they split the pumpkins with for feed, and I get the smell of the fodder and the cattle, so that it brings up the right picture in the mind of the reader.”