James Whitcomb Riley
A Child-World
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066229498
Table of Contents
MAYMIE'S STORY OF RED RIDING HOOD
FLORETTY'S MUSICAL CONTRIBUTION
THE CHILD-WORLD
A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less,
To those who knew its boundless happiness.
A simple old frame house—eight rooms in all—
Set just one side the center of a small
But very hopeful Indiana town—
The upper-story looking squarely down
Upon the main street, and the main highway
From East to West—historic in its day,
Known as The National Road—old-timers, all
Who linger yet, will happily recall
It as the scheme and handiwork, as well
As property, of "Uncle Sam," and tell
Of its importance, "long and long afore
Railroads wuz ever dreamp' of!"—Furthermore, The reminiscent first Inhabitants Will make that old road blossom with romance Of snowy caravans, in long parade Of covered vehicles, of every grade From ox-cart of most primitive design, To Conestoga wagons, with their fine Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear, High names and chiming bells—to childish ear And eye entrancing as the glittering train Of some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain. And, in like spirit, haply they will tell You of the roadside forests, and the yell Of "wolfs" and "painters," in the long night-ride, And "screechin' catamounts" on every side.— Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes, And yet unriddled mysteries of the times Called "Good Old." "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rare Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair Out of his twinkling eyes and said—"Well John, They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!" The old home site was portioned into three Distinctive lots. The front one—natively Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine— The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and Upon the alley north and south, left hand, The old wood-house—half, trimly stacked with wood, And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood Steadfastly through all seasons.—Over it, Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit, And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane— And little jack-plane, too—the children's vain Possession by pretense—in fancy they Manipulating it in endless play, Turning out countless curls and loops of bright, Fine satin shavings—Rapture infinite! Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's Outline in "curly maple"; and a pair Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there. Some "patterns," in thin wood, of shield and scroll, Hung higher, with a neat "cane-fishing-pole" And careful tackle—all securely out Of reach of children, rummaging about. Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree Known as "The Prince's Harvest"—Magic phrase! That was a boy's own tree, in many ways!— Its girth and height meet both for the caress Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness: And then its apples, humoring his whim, Seemed just to fairly hurry ripe for him— Even in June, impetuous as he, They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree. And O their bruised sweet faces where they fell!— And ho! the lips that feigned to "kiss them well"! "The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree," a stalwart, stood In fairly sympathetic neighborhood Of this wild princeling with his early gold To toss about so lavishly nor hold In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months. Under the spacious shade of this the eyes Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between, And "when the old cat died" they saw but green. And, then, there was a cherry-tree.—We all And severally will yet recall From our lost youth, in gentlest memory, The blessed fact—There was a cherry-tree. There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows Cool even now the