Related books from

James Whitcomb Riley

In 1877 he went to work for the Anderson (Indiana) Democrat as a writer.  Frustrated with the rejection letters for his verse he was receiving from eastern publications, he wrote a poem called “Leonainie” signed “E. A. P.” - for Edgar Allan Poe. The poem was quickly circulated, thus providing proof to a smug Riley that only poems written by “a genius known to fame” could be published.  When he revealed that it was a hoax he was promplty fired - but not because of the deception. The editor of a rival paper, the Kokomo Dispatch, was the one who had linked poem to Poe, thus achieving attention the editors of the Anderson Democrat thought they deserved.

Leonainie -- Angels named her;

   And they took the light

Of the laughing stars and framed her

   In a smile of white;

     And they made her hair of gloomy

     Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy

     Moonshine, and the brought her to me

   In the solemn night.

The poem “Leonainie”, written by Riley in the style of
Edgar Allan Poe and later uncovered as a hoax.

Riley was despondent and his creativity was drowned in the tide of criticism.  His spirits turned, however, when several critics realized the beauty of the verse. One stated, “Those who love witch tales and eerie things like to think that the soul of Poe worked its way up through Riley in the ‘Leonainie’ poem.” A young college student from Sandusky, Ohio set the poem to music and sang it beautifully for a stunned crowd - which included Riley by way of some complementary tickets - at the Masonic Hall in Greenfield.

His talent and notoriety soon landed him another job with the Indianapolis Journal writing poetry under the pen name, “Benj. F. Johnson”.  Needing encouragement, he sent some of his work to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who promptly sent back a short but very encouraging letter.  This spurred Riley into some of his best work - some of these poems were published into a book entitled “The Old Swimmin’ Hole and ‘Leven More Poems” in 1883. The most famous of these , “When the Frost Is on the Punkin” established a unique voice in poetry: the use of down-home Indiana dialect and a knowlege of rural life to paint pictures of childhood in simple times.  As Americans struggled with the impact of the industrial age, they looked for reminders of their childhood and what had been lost - and Riley would be there.

    When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,

    And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,

    And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,

    And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

    O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,

    With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

    As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes to feed the stock,

    When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

    They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere

    When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here --

    Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

    And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;

    But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze

    Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

    Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock --

    When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

    The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

    And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

    The stubble in the furries -- kindo' lonesome-like, but still

    A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;

    The strawsack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

    The hosses in theyr stalls below -- the clover overhead! --

    O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,

    When the frost is on the punkin, and the fodder's in the shock!

    Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

    Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

    And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through

    With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!

    I don't know how to tell it -- but ef sich a thing could be

    As the Angles wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me --

    I'd want to 'commodate 'em -- all the whole-indurin' flock --

    When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

“When the Frost Is on the Punkin” by James Whitcomb Riley; a poem about harvest time on the farm.

For the non-Hoosier:

“Punkin” is a colloquial version of “pumpkin”.

“Fodder” is livestock feed, as in dried corn, and  a “shock” is a heap in the field.

“Guineys” are Guinea fowl, small birds raised for their meat.

“Hallylooyer” is hallelujah.

“Tossels” are corn tassels, the flax-like ends of corn ears.

“Furries” is furrows, “meader” is meadow, and “wimmern-folks” is “women-folks”.

“Mince” refers to mincemeat pie, and “souse” refers to pickled foods.

“Boardin’” a meal, as in the “board” part of “room and board”.

He achieved great fame for writing two poems in particular.  “Little Orphant Annie”, was probably the most popular - a poem about a young girl who comes to live with the family.  It was later adapted into a Broadway musical, a comic strip and several movies.

Besides several schools and parks, the world-renown Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis is named after him.

“The Song Of Yesterday”

a poem about growing old.

by James Whitcomb Riley

                   I

   But yesterday

   I looked away

O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay

   In golden blots,

   Inlaid with spots

Of shade and wild forget-me-nots.

   My head was fair

   With flaxen hair,

And fragrant breezes, faint and rare,

   And, warm with drouth

   From out the south,

Blew all my curls across my mouth.

   And, cool and sweet,

   My naked feet

Found dewy pathways through the wheat;

   And out again

   Where, down the lane,

The dust was dimpled with the rain.

                 II

   But yesterday! --

   Adream, astray,

From morning's red to evening's dray,

   O'er dales and hills

   Of daffodils

And lorn sweet-fluting whippoorwills.

   I knew nor cares

   Nor tears nor prayers --

A mortal god, crowned unawares

   With sunset -- and

   A scepter-wand

Of apple-blossoms in my hand!

   The dewy blue

   Of twilight grew

To purple, with a star or two

   Whose lisping rays

   Failed in the blaze

Of sudden fireflies through the haze.

                 III

   But yesterday

   I heard the lay

Of summer birds, when I, as they

   With breast and wing,

   All quivering

With life and love, could only sing.

   My head was leant

   Where, with it, blent

A maiden's, o'er her instrument;

   While all the night,

   From vale to height,

Was filled with echoes of delight.

   And all our dreams

   Were lit with gleams

Of that lost land of reedy streams,

   Along whose brim

   Forever swim

Pan's lilies, laughing up at him.

                 IV

   But yesterday! ...

   O blooms of May,

And summer roses -- where away?

   O stars above;

   And lips of love,

And all the honeyed sweets thereof! --

   O lad and lass,

   And orchard pass,

And briered lane, and daisied grass!

   O gleam and gloom,

   And woodland bloom,

And breezy breaths of all perfume! --

   No more for me

   Or mine shall be

Thy raptures -- save in memory, --

   No more -- no more --

   Till through the Door

Of Glory gleam the days of yore.

© 2001-2009 Lost Enterprises.

Please seek the author’s permission before reusing or quoting this website.