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An Indianapolis newsboy had this to tell of Riley: "This morning we were talking about your birthday and the teacher asked us if we knew or ever saw you. I was the only one in the room that raised my hand. I told her that I have sold you many newspapers by the market. She asked me if you ever gave me any tips, as us newsboys call them. I told the teacher that one day you gave me a quarter tip." Riley never asked a newsboy for change. "Pennies," he explained, "were very scarce when I was a boy."

On just one occasion he was drawn into an intimate talk in which he revealed from his vivid memory of the boy he used to be the real < secret of his understanding of children.

"There is always beside me the little boy

caught him up and covered him with kisses who won his heart? No, it was the people whose hearts he thought he had won.

"So with this little, strange child in the room, I would sit still and pretend to be talking with the grown-up people. But I never ceased to be conscious of

TRIPLETS NAMED AFTER THE POET James Rule, Whitcomb Rule, Riley Rule

I used to be, and I can think his thoughts, and live his hopes and his tragedies now, just as much as I could when I looked like him.

"We have great times together-this little boy and I-and we are never more intimate than when some other little child is near us. I have sat here by the fire, or by somebody else's fire, and have seen a little, strange child come into the room when it seemed as if he must know how much alike we were and that I must go and talk with him. But I never did go to him right away, or call him to me. Why? Because the little boy I used to be was at my elbow, and I remembered very well how he used to like to have people treat him. Was it the people who made an affectionate rush at him and

him for a min

ute wouldn't have let him know that for the world. I wooed him instead as subtly as ever lover wooed a sweetheart— and, when you consider it, a lover woos as if his sweetheart were a child, undervaluing what is too easily won, and overestimating what is hard to possess. So I would hold out my hand to the child with all the absent-mindedness I could muster, and I would keep on talking. The little, strange child

only I

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would watch like a little, shy rabbit, and come a little nearer, and a little nearer, and finally he would be standing with my arm around him, and all the while I would be talking to some one else, and not seeming to pay him the slightest attention. Then at length he would begin to make timid efforts to attract my notice, and, finally, I would let him. After that we would be fast friends.'

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Riley took his correspondence with children seriously. Always he saw that no child's letter went neglected, even though he himself had ordinarily no more than time to read the messages. Often he replied with little souvenir bookmarks or Christmas cards which he ingeniously devised, or booklets of verses in facsimile of his handwriting. He always was thoughtful and consid

erate of their feelings. If there were two in the family two souvenirs exactly alike must go.

And so the hosts of small friends who wrote to him were never forgotten by Riley. They were held to him not only by his poems, but by the personal letter which cheered. There are men and women to-day who have preserved as a most precious memory a cherished letter from Riley like this one:

JAMES L. MURRAY:

DEAR LITTLE BOY,-No-sir-ee! I couldn't write verses when I was nine years old like you. But, as you do, I could get verses "by heart," for speeches at School-only I always got pale and sick and faint when I tried to speak 'em-and my chin wobbled, and my throat hurt, and then I broke clean down and cried. Oughtn't I been ashamed of myself? I bet you ain't goin' to cry-in the Second Room of the A Grade!

I was sorry to hear your mother died when you were only one year old. My mother is dead, too; and so I wouldn't be surprised if your mother and my mother were together right now, and know each other, and are the best friends in their World, just as you and I are in this. My best respects to your good father and teachers all.

Ever your friend,

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JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

To another and older boy, the son of Riley's life-long friend, Dr. Franklin W. Hays, the poet sent a letter with the verses, A Simple Recipe,-Showing How to Make the Right Kind of a Man Out of the Right Kind of a Boy."

DEAR FRIEND TOм,-You have written me a mighty fine letter and as interesting and entertaining, from start to finish, as Gentry's show of trick-animals-in the highly enthusiastic midst of which

"The Baby Elephant goes round and round,
The band begins to play,
And the little boys under the monkey's cage
Had better git out o' the way!"

The little pony the poodle rides,

And the "munk' that beats him tooThe wild sea-hoss, and the 'noss-e-ross, The koot, and the kangaroo!

Indeed the letter is as though I were an excited spectator of the whole delightful performance.

Your affectionate old friend,

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

A little girl, the daughter of old friends, wrote from his native town, Greenfield, for a contribution for her school paper. Riley replied: MISS HELEN DOWNING:

more.

DEAR FRIEND AND FELLOW CITIZEN,-It is just impossible for me to write a suitable article for "The High School Budget," in the time you give me, being now a child no But I want you to tell "the Graduating Class," for me, that, as their view of the World which they are now about to enter might make Providence alter His plans quite a good deal, each worthy pupil ought to think ahead, and so put the great Master to the least possible embarrassment. Well can I fancy-in the old days-with what surprise He ultimately found an utterly unpromising "scholar" amounting to something. So, I say to you-in lieu of any literary attempt on my part to break into "The Budget' while the editors are looking the other way,tell all the children, in High or Low school, that here's an old schoolboy a-bettin' on 'em all-thinkin', trustin' and knowin' that everyone of 'em is goin' to do his and her very level-best to make things "unembarrassing" for the One Supreme Master of us all.

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As to the old song-rhymes of mine you desire to print-Yes, put 'em in "The Budget,' if they're worthy-which I doubt. . . . And now, my dear child, let me startle you a trifle, maybe, by telling you that right in the midst of all you lovely children is a little chap you never see at all! . . . 'cause he's a ghost! And a nawful happy shore-'nuff ghost!-And it's me!-Back to Greenfield--my home, and your home-and your parents' home-and the best home outside of Heaven.

So, with all hale greetings to everybody, I am your old Hoosier friend and schoolmate, JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

To little Elizabeth Page, who wrote about a "beautiful collie pup honored with the name of James Whitcomb Riley Page," the poet replied:

DEAR ELIZABETH PAGE,-You have sent me a mighty good letter, and I thank you heartily. I receive a great number of letters, mostly written by grown-up people, and it is really surprising how uninteresting they can be.

Give me a letter any time from the Elizabeth Pages of this world. What you say in appreciation of your "Daddy" goes spang to the spot. That is right, bet on your "Daddy" above all other men however bright they shine in the spotlight of your

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A POST-CARD TO DORY ANN," WRITTEN FROM THE POET'S OLD HOME AT GREENFIELD, INDIANA

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DEAR JOHN KERN, JR.,-You are a brother invalid but you have the edge on me, for you are able to write your own letters while I have not made a scratch of a pen for nearly three years. It is very good to hear from you, although I feel that I know you well for your father's sake.

We are patients of the same doctor and like you I enjoy Mr. Noblet's ministrations. As yet I walk about the same as you do from his description, but am earnestly hoping that you and I will caper about together at some early future time. All we have to do is to

be brave and gallant in our affliction and I think the Good Lord will eventually reward us, reward us with the good health of our more fortunate constituents. I mean some time to answer your invitation and stop to see you, just as soon as I find myself a little less unwieldy.

Present my best wishes and regards to your parents and believe me always Very truly your friend,

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

Among the letters of Riley to children, those to the little niece of his lifelong friend, Miss Edith M. Thomas, the poet, have a particular interest. in the inevitable course of events she With her Riley exchanged letters until grew up. In a child's spirit, and often in its language, he made some of the most intimate revelations of his character. Among his papers was found this unfinished letter begun but never sent. She had written to express her delight in "Orphant Annie" and "The Runaway Boy." Riley prepared this reply:

DEAR LITTLE FRIEND, One time an old middle-aged man-a very middle-aged manwho from his childhood had been playing that he was a poet-got some sure-enough books of poetry-pieces printed, at last, and sprinkled them over his friends like salt on cantalopes; and then leaned back and waited for applause and laughed to himself

so that he would not miss any voice of praise out of the vast chorus of the world at large. And he is listening still-though, like the bass kings in the O-r-tao-ri-o,

He thinks it not becoming
To be found in idle funning
So his laugh is ver-ee L O W-
НА!
НА!

And yet not quite in vain has he been listening all these years, for now and then faint murmurous accents like yours reach his almost starving senses; and as he hears them, the old man's fancies find his Youth again and all the childish joys that once were his.So veritably young he is that he goes dancing back to his old make-believes, and plays that he's a poet, just as then.

Miss Medairy Dory Ann

Cast her line and caught a man,
But when he looked so pleased (alack!)
She unhooked and plunked him back,-
"I never like to catch what I can,'
Said Miss Medairy Dory Ann.

It would be interesting to know why this letter was never sent. It seems not at all unlikely that Riley did not send

weeks. In a letter telling of her accident she inclosed her photographs. Few little girls ever received a more deft message of comfort than this:

MY DEAR MISS MEDAIRY DORY ANN,-No use trying, for I just can't tell you how proud I am of your letter and the portraits. too-though to save me I can't see, by your picture, which arm it is that has been hurting so. Strange that the artist should take the arm so lifelike and yet leave out the ache! Surely he must have neglected something, the day you say—wasn't it a dark, damp sort of a day, so that the chemicals smelled too thick? or did the artist fail to smother himself long enough under the velvet cover of his camera? or did he, by some fateful oversight, fail to instruct you to "look pleasant,"

lift the chin," "moisten the lips," "wink" like a kinettescope and "hold perfectly still," all at one and the same sneezible instant! Be this all as it may, I'm rejoiced at the beautiful result-the portraits both to adorn the walls of my already storied Temple of Fame. Yes, and I'm going to try to take your advice as to writing more "Runaway Boys" and "Orphant Annies.'

OUR teacher Miss King,
She's the sweetest thing,
And I'll tell you the reason why:
She dresses in light
Lawn, yellow and white,
And looks like a custard pic.

AN ILLUMINATED POSTSCRIPT This was appended to the letter to "Dory Ann which is printed in the following column of this page

it because he wanted to write to the little girl as a mere friend and not in the person of a poet. Riley always called her "Dory Ann," after an old-fashioned name from the memories of his childhood. When the letters began, the child was in the hospital suffering from an injury to her arm which kept her there for many

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Very gratefully your old
Hoosier friend,
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

In one of her first letters the little girl tried to coax the poet to New York for a visit by expressing the hope that if he came they might have "ice cream and salted almonds for dinner." A little later Riley addressed a letter to her signed "Bud," the name he went by as a child:

Dear frund i rite to Let
you Kno the World is
White With drif tud
Snow

The Worlds in bed all
tucked in

White like its Ma Said
There deear good
Night.

ever thine yore littel po-itry friend,
BUD RILEY.

After that "Dory Ann" addressed him as "Bud" Riley. At Christmastime the poet and the little girl regularly exchanged presents. "Dory Ann's first gift to the poet is of interest because of the letter it inspired:

DEAR FRIEND DORY ANN,-Indeed I did get your fine Christmas present, and beautiful as it is, I've had it in use ever since it came. When I read the wondrously wrought letters of the legend on it, "Cuffs and Collars," then I seemed to know at once just what it was for, and so I rushed back up to my room with it and hung it up ins'antly; and then all joyously I took off my cuffs and collar and put them in their exquizut lovely case -And "O how sweet they looked in that ellagunt resepticul" I then exclaimed, radiant with delight unspeakable. And now, ever since, when callers come to see me, Dennis tells 'em "Yes'm, Mist' Riley's here, but I spec' he cain't see nobody no more, caze he's got a Christmusgif what he's got sich a 'miration for dat he done keep his cuffs and colluhs in it all de time! - Yes'm an' done sent word to ev'body for to skusen him he cain't come down, caze he aint got on no cuffs and collahs, an co'se he cain't come down no more!"

Yours with evergrowing thanks

good-and-creamy, I've got it all licked up! So I think, when you hint about some folks being "pretty mean," that you must have in mind a certain girl I know-and that's you your-own-sef! (and I spelt self thataway a-purpose.) But the other day I was a little mean, I guess, when my little third-cousin Helen broke away from her Pa (my secondcousin) and his Pa (my first-cousin) and ran

EDITH THOMAS MEDAIRY

It is this photograph of "Dory Ann" to which Riley refers in his letter on the preceding page

and tears of rapchurus Joy. BUD RILEY. Next Valentine's Day Riley sent her a book, for which Dory Ann thanked him, and added this comment:

Aunt Edith said people died and made you sad. I am sorry. Grim (my cat) just died and I am sad too. When are you coming to eat ice cream and turkey?

"Bud" discussed turkey with her year in and year out.

DEAR DORY ANN,-Your last letter was so short I couldn't laugh over it only just a little. And then you choose such small words and write them in so big a hand on such a weenty-teenty page, that just about the time your letter gets to tasting

right in front of a streetcar and almost under the wheels, when her Pa grabbed her, and she was 'most about to cry, and I laughed at her and clapped my hands and said "Goody! goody! goody! you come purt'near' a-gittin' run over! GoodyGoody! that's what you git when you're only ist somebody's thirdcousin!"

All right about the turkey that died of old age, waiting for me to come help eat him! -If that's a picture of him you made, why I think he wasn't the kind of turkey folks eat, anyhow 'cause you made him with four legs, like a work-stand, so you ought to have made casters on him 'stead o'

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toes! Eatin'-turkeys has only got two legs. Here's a picture of a eatin'-turkey:And here's a Eatin'-turkey poem:

When Dory Ann she gave a tea
She specially invited me,

With other children, two or three,

And asked us all to come quick! "Because," she wrote, "dear friends I've got A turkey for you, steaming hot, And each of you-forget it not

Shall have a savory drumstick!"

But when her four guests came, and she
Cut off one turkey-leg for me
And one for her-why, there were three
More guests might suck their thumbs slick!

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