A Spray of Kentucky Pine | Page 2

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