The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, vol 1 | Page 6

signs and wrote poetry. My father did not
encourage my verse-making for he thought it too visionary, and being a
visionary himself, he believed he understood the dangers of following
the promptings of the poetic temperament. I doubted if anything would
come of the verse-writing myself. At this time it is easy to picture my
father, a lawyer of ability, regarding me, nonplused, as the worst case
he had ever had. He wanted me to do something practical, besides
being ambitious for me to follow in his footsteps, and at last persuaded
me to settle down and read law in his office. This I really tried to do
conscientiously, but finding that political economy and Blackstone did
not rhyme and that the study of law was unbearable, I slipped out of the
office one summer afternoon, when all out-doors called imperiously,
shook the last dusty premise from my head and was away.
"The immediate instigator of my flight was a traveling medicine man
who appealed to me for this reason: My health was bad, very bad,--as
bad as I was. Our doctor had advised me to travel, but how could I
travel without money? The medicine man needed an assistant and I
plucked up courage to ask if I could join the party and paint
advertisements for him.
"I rode out of town with that glittering cavalcade without saying
good-by to any one, and though my patron was not a diplomaed doctor,
as I found out, he was a man of excellent habits, and the whole
company was made up of good straight boys, jolly chirping vagabonds
like myself. It was delightful to bowl over the country in that way. I
laughed all the time. Miles and miles of somber landscape were made
bright with merry song, and when the sun shone and all the golden
summer lay spread out before us, it was glorious just to drift on through
it like a wisp, of thistle-down, careless of how, or when, or where the
wind should anchor us. 'There's a tang of gipsy blood in my veins that
pants for the sun and the air.'
"My duty proper was the manipulation of two blackboards, swung at
the sides of the wagon during our street lecture and concert. These
boards were alternately embellished with colored drawings illustrative
of the manifold virtues of the nostrum vended. Sometimes I assisted the

musical olio with dialect recitations and character sketches from the
back step of the wagon. These selections in the main originated from
incidents and experiences along the route, and were composed on dull
Sundays in lonesome little towns where even the church bells seemed
to bark at us."
On his return to Greenfield after this delightful but profitless tour he
became the local editor of his home paper and in a few months
"strangled the little thing into a change of ownership." The new
proprietor transferred him to the literary department and the latter, not
knowing what else to put in the space allotted him, filled it with verse.
But there was not room in his department for all he produced, so he
began, timidly, to offer his poetic wares in foreign markets. The editor
of The Indianapolis Mirror accepted two or three shorter verses but in
doing so suggested that in the future he try prose. Being but an humble
beginner, Riley harkened to the advice, whereupon the editor made a
further suggestion; this time that he try poetry again. The Danbury
(Connecticut) News, then at the height of its humorous reputation,
accepted a contribution shortly after The Mirror episode and Mr.
McGeechy, its managing editor, wrote the young poet a graceful note
of congratulation. Commenting on these parlous times, Riley afterward
wrote, "It is strange how little a thing sometimes makes or unmakes a
fellow. In these dark days I should have been content with the twinkle
of the tiniest star, but even this light was withheld from me. Just then
came the letter from McGeechy; and about the same time, arrived my
first check, a payment from Hearth and Home for a contribution called
A Destiny (now A Dreamer in A Child World). The letter was signed,
'Editor' and unless sent by an assistant it must have come from Ik
Marvel himself, God bless him! I thought my fortune made. Almost
immediately I sent off another contribution, whereupon to my dismay
came this reply: 'The management has decided to discontinue the
publication and hopes that you will find a market for your worthy work
elsewhere.' Then followed dark days indeed, until finally, inspired by
my old teacher and comrade, Captain Lee O. Harris, I sent some of my
poems to Longfellow, who replied in his kind and gentle manner with
the substantial encouragement for which I had long thirsted."
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