A Spray of Kentucky Pine | Page 3

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!"
[Illustration]
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!
The Man could be known--and was--of all men.
The Poet could be
read--as he was--and he understood.
He could Sing--as he did--Songs

which caught the Hearts of the
People--from the Cradle to the
Grave!
The Mystic!
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
That Mystic Element in your Nature!
It
was held under a Strong Curb:
It was constantly held in Check:
But
it was never Overcome!
It was a Mood--not a Madness.

It seldom
made an Outward Sign.
Then, it was brief, spasmodic, eratic.
It was
known to but few, even of those
who came with you, in constant
contact.
To this Man, that Mystic Element in your Nature,
made a
most wonderful Appeal, deep, strong.
To him, it was the real James

Whitcomb Riley!
You were a Mystic, but never a Reformer.
You
cheerfully rendered unto Ceasar all things
that were his just due.

You had no desire to overturn Natural Law,
Human Regulation.

You accepted, without question, the Established
Order of Things.

But so strong was this touch of the Mystic
that, it you had desired,
you could have,
quickly, thickly, populated some far off Smiling Isle,

of the Fair Summer Seas, with a Band of
Cultured Men, of
Cultured Women, ready,
eager, to follow you--that Mystic You! into

the Creation of a New Cult, of a New Religion!
In your Poems
there is but a trickle of the Mystic
--a flash a dash--as the falling of a
Star!
That Edgar Allen Poe Episode, is the Answer.
You were
unduly humiliated by that Incident--
--and it was but as Nothing

But your Super-Sensitiveness, made you Suffer!
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
Death, hath yet other Compensations!
It
has placed you Beyond the Cloy of Fulsome Praise:
Beyond the Sting
of Cruel Blame: the One,
may not help You the Other, cannot hurt
You!
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
Once, when under the Spell of a Mystic
Mood,
you sought--as you had often sought before--that
Wise
Wizard of White River.
He met you, when you came into that
Peaceful
Indiana Valley--where dwells this Wizard--by the
Flowing
Fountain of those Healing Waters.
He knew your need; he spoke no
unnecessary word;
he quickly set his place in order, and was ready

to go with you--anywhere.
There had been, on your arrival, a clamor
to have
you Read that afternoon--but the Wizard
quietly slipped
you away.
Out into the Open you drove, in an old Barouche,
behind
a Pair of Good Horses.
It was a long Drive; it was a beautiful Drive.

It was driven in Silence.

After several hours--the spell was still
upon you--a
sharp turn brought you to the Banks of White River;

and there--under a Clump of the Sycamore, of the
Willow, in a deep,
Shady Pool, an Eddy, undisturbed
by the current of the broad,

shallow Stream--a
Batch of Boys, swimming, chattering, diving.

"Stop" you said to the driver; "Come here" you called to the Lads. They
came trooping, dripping, out of the Pool.
A change came over you;
flinging off your coat,
your hat, you arose to your feet.
There they
stood before you, naked, unabashed, curious.
A complacent smile,
flickered across the bearded
face of the Wise Wizard. He must have
known!
He must have timed your arrival at that particular
spot, at
that particular moment.
But even the Wizard could not have known
what was to follow. Without a word of explanation, you gave them,
that
crowd of naked Boys--gave it, as you had never
given it before,
doubtless, as you never
gave it again--your