James Whitcomb Riley: Verses about Red

Sweet little myth of the nursery story--
Earliest love of mine infantile breast,
Be something tangible, bloom in thy glory
Into existence, as thou art addressed!
Hasten! appear to me, guileless and good--
Thou are so dear to me, Red Riding-Hood!

Azure-blue eyes, in a marvel of wonder,
Over the dawn of a blush breaking out;
Sensitive nose, with a little smile under
Trying to hide in a blossoming pout--
Couldn't be serious, try as you would,
Little mysterious Red Riding-Hood!

Hah! little girl, it is desolate, lonely,
Out in this gloomy old forest of Life!--
Here are not pansies and buttercups only--
Brambles and briers as keen as a knife;
And a Heart, ravenous, trails in the wood
For the meal have he must,--Red Riding-Hood!

It tossed its head at the wooing breeze;
And the sun, like a bashful swain,
Beamed on it through the waving trees
With a passion all in vain,--
For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The honey-bee came there to sing
His love through the languid hours,
And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king
Might boast of his palace-towers:
But my rose bowed in a mockery,
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The humming-bird, like a courtier gay,
Dipped down with a dalliant song,
And twanged his wings through the roundelay
Of love the whole day long:
Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The firefly came in the twilight dim
My red, red rose to woo--
Till quenched was the flame of love in him,
And the light of his lantern too,
As my rose wept with dewdrops three
And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose--
Some day I will claim as mine
The priceless worth of the flower that knows
No change, but a bloom divine--
The bloom of a fadeless constancy
That hides in the leaves in wait for me!

But time passed by in a strange disguise,
And I marked it not, but lay
In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes,
Till the summer slipped away,
And a chill wind sang in a minor key:
'Where is the rose that waits for thee?'

. . . . . . . .

I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain
Of bloom on a withered stalk,
Pelted down by the autumn rain
In the dust of the garden-walk,
That an Angel-rose in the world to be
Will hide in the leaves in wait for me.

They rode right out of the morning sun--
A glimmering, glittering cavalcade
Of knights and ladies and every one
In princely sheen arrayed;
And the king of them all, O he rode ahead,
With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red
That spurted about in the breeze and bled
In the bloom of the everglade.

And they rode high over the dewy lawn,
With brave, glad banners of every hue
That rolled in ripples, as they rode on
In splendor, two and two;
And the tinkling links of the golden reins
Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains
As the castanets in a dream of Spain's
Intensest gold and blue.

And they rode and rode; and the steeds they neighed
And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides
Flickered and lightened and glanced and played
Like the moon on rippling tides;

And their manes were silken, and thick and strong,
And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long,
And jostled in time to the teeming throng,
And their knightly song besides.

Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur,
And the fluttering sash of the queen went wild
In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her
As one at a wilful child--,
And as knight and lady away they flew,
And the banners flapped, and the falcon too,
And the lances flashed and the bugle blew,
He kissed his hand and smiled.

And then, like a slanting sunlit shower,
The pageant glittered across the plain,
And the turf spun back, and the wildweed flower
Was only a crimson stain.
And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast,
As he blends these words with the wailing blast:
'It is the King of the Year rides past!'
And Autumn is here again.

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 fevered sight that knows
No more its airy visions of pure joy--
As when you were a boy.

There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set
His blue against its white--O blue as jet
He seemed there then!--But _now_--Whoever knew
He was so pale a blue!

There was a cherry-tree--Our child-eyes saw
The miracle:--Its pure white snows did thaw
Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet
But for a boy to eat.

There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!--
There was a bloom of snow--There was a boy--
There was a Bluejay of the realest blue--
And fruit for both of you.

Then the old garden, with the apple-trees
Grouped 'round the margin, and 'a stand of bees'
By the 'white-winter-pearmain'; and a row
Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so.
The old grape-arbor in the center, by
The pathway to the stable, with the sty
Behind it, and _upon_ it, cootering flocks
Of pigeons, and the cutest 'martin-box'!--
Made like a sure-enough house--with roof, and doors
And windows in it, and veranda-floors
And balusters all 'round it--yes, and at
Each end a chimney--painted red at that
And penciled white, to look like little bricks;
And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks,
Two tiny little lightning-rods were run
Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun.
Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile.--
It _may_ be you can guess who, afterwhile.
Home in his stall, 'Old Sorrel' munched his hay
And oats and corn, and switched the flies away,
In a repose of patience good to see,
And earnest of the gentlest pedigree.
With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed
Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed
Around the edges of the lot outside,
And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried
To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred,
But dropped, _k'whop!_ and scraped the buggy-shed,
Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair
Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there.
Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet
And whinneying a whinney like a bleat,
He would pursue himself around the lot
And--do the whole thing over, like as not!...
Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread
And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led!
Above the fences, either side, were seen
The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green
Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall
Alike whitewashed, and order in it all:
The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade
And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid
Aside, were in their places, ready for
The hand of either the possessor or
Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan
Of any tool he might not chance to own.

W'y, one time wuz a little-weenty dirl,
An' she wuz named Red Riding Hood, 'cause her--
Her _Ma_ she maked a little red cloak fer her
'At turnt up over her head--An' it 'uz all
Ist one piece o' red cardinal 'at 's like
The drate-long stockin's the store-keepers has.--
O! it 'uz purtiest cloak in all the world
An' _all_ this town er anywheres they is!
An' so, one day, her Ma she put it on
Red Riding Hood, she did--one day, she did--
An' it 'uz _Sund'y_--'cause the little cloak
It 'uz too nice to wear ist _ever'_ day
An' _all_ the time!--An' so her Ma, she put
It on Red Riding Hood--an' telled her not
To dit no dirt on it ner dit it mussed
Ner nothin'! An'--an'--nen her Ma she dot
Her little basket out, 'at Old Kriss bringed
Her wunst--one time, he did. And nen she fill'
It full o' whole lots an' 'bundance o' good things t' eat
(Allus my Dran'ma _she_ says ''bundance,' too.)
An' so her Ma fill' little Red Riding Hood's
Nice basket all ist full o' dood things t' eat,
An' tell her take 'em to her old Dran'ma--
An' not to _spill_ 'em, neever--'cause ef she
'Ud stump her toe an' spill 'em, her Dran'ma
She'll haf to _punish_ her!

An' nen--An' so
Little Red Riding Hood she p'omised she
'Ud be all careful nen an' cross' her heart
'At she wont run an' spill 'em all fer six--
Five--ten--two-hundred-bushel-dollars-go ld!
An' nen she kiss her Ma doo'-bye an' went
A-skippin' off--away fur off frough the
Big woods, where her Dran'ma she live at.--No!--
She didn't do _a-skippin'_, like I said:--
She ist went _walkin'_--careful-like an' slow--
Ist like a little lady--walkin' 'long
As all polite an' nice--an' slow--an' straight--
An' turn her toes--ist like she's marchin' in
The Sund'y-School k-session!

An'--an'--so
She 'uz a-doin' along--an' doin' along--
On frough the drate big woods--'cause her Dran'ma
She live 'way, 'way fur off frough the big woods
From _her_ Ma's house. So when Red Riding Hood
She dit to do there, allus have most fun--
When she do frough the drate big woods, you know.--
'Cause she ain't feared a bit o' anything!
An' so she sees the little hoppty-birds
'At's in the trees, an' flyin' all around,
An' singin' dlad as ef their parunts said
They'll take 'em to the magic-lantern show!
An' she 'ud pull the purty flowers an' things
A-growin' round the stumps--An' she 'ud ketch
The purty butterflies, an' drasshoppers,
An' stick pins frough 'em--No!--I ist _said_ that!--
'Cause she's too dood an' kind an' 'bedient
To _hurt_ things thataway.--She'd _ketch_ 'em, though,
An' ist _play_ wiv 'em ist a little while,
An' nen she'd let 'em fly away, she would,
An' ist skip on adin to her Dran'ma's.

An' so, while she uz doin' 'long an' 'long,
First thing you know they 'uz a drate big old
Mean wicked Wolf jumped out 'at wanted t' eat
Her up, but _dassent_ to--'cause wite clos't there
They wuz a Man a-choppin' wood, an' you
Could _hear_ him.--So the old Wolf he 'uz _'feared_
Only to ist be _kind_ to her.--So he
Ist 'tended like he wuz dood friends to her
An' says 'Dood-morning, little Red Riding Hood!'--
All ist as kind!

An' nen Riding Hood
She say 'Dood-morning,' too--all kind an' nice--
Ist like her Ma she learn'--No!--mustn't say
'Learn,' cause '_Learn_' it's unproper.--So she say
It like her _Ma_ she '_teached_' her.--An'--so she
Ist says 'Dood-morning' to the Wolf--'cause she
Don't know ut-tall 'at he's a _wicked_ Wolf
An' want to eat her up!

Nen old Wolf smile
An' say, so kind: 'Where air you doin' at?'
Nen little Red Riding Hood she says: 'I'm doin'
To my Dran'ma's, 'cause my Ma say I might.'
Nen, when she tell him that, the old Wolf he
Ist turn an' light out frough the big thick woods,
Where she can't see him any more. An so
She think he's went to _his_ house--but he haint,--
He's went to her Dran'ma's, to be there first--
An' _ketch_ her, ef she don't watch mighty sharp
What she's about!

An' nen when the old Wolf
Dit to her Dran'ma's house, he's purty smart,--
An' so he 'tend-like _he's_ Red Riding Hood,
An' knock at th' door. An' Riding Hood's Dran'ma
She's sick in bed an' can't come to the door
An' open it. So th' old Wolf knock _two_ times.
An' nen Red Riding Hood's Dran'ma she says
'Who's there?' she says. An' old Wolf 'tends-like he's
Little Red Riding Hood, you know, an' make'
His voice soun' ist like hers, an' says: 'It's me,
Dran'ma--an' I'm Red Riding Hood an' I'm
Ist come to see you.'

Nen her old Dran'ma
She think it _is_ little Red Riding Hood,
An' so she say: 'Well, come in nen an' make
You'se'f at home,' she says, ''cause I'm down sick
In bed, and got the 'ralgia, so's I can't
Dit up an' let ye in.'

An' so th' old Wolf
Ist march' in nen an' shet the door adin,
An' _drowl_, he did, an' _splunge_ up on the bed
An' et up old Miz Riding Hood 'fore she
Could put her specs on an' see who it wuz.--
An' so she never knowed _who_ et her up!

An' nen the wicked Wolf he ist put on
Her nightcap, an' all covered up in bed--
Like he wuz _her_, you know.

Nen, purty soon
Here come along little Red Riding Hood,
An' _she_ knock' at the door. An' old Wolf 'tend
Like _he's_ her Dran'ma; an' he say, 'Who's there?'
Ist like her Dran'ma say, you know. An' so
Little Red Riding Hood she say 'It's _me_,
Dran'ma--an' I'm Red Riding Hood and I'm
Ist come to _see_ you.'

An' nen old Wolf nen
He cough an' say: 'Well, come in nen an' make
You'se'f at home,' he says, ''cause I'm down sick
In bed, an' got the 'ralgia, so's I can't
Dit up an' let ye in.'

An' so she think
It's her Dran'ma a-talkin'.--So she ist
Open' the door an' come in, an' set down
Her basket, an' taked off her things, an' bringed
A chair an' clumbed up on the bed, wite by
The old big Wolf she thinks is her Dran'ma.--
Only she thinks the old Wolf's dot whole lots
More bigger ears, an' lots more whiskers, too,
Than her Dran'ma; an' so Red Riding Hood
She's kindo' skeered a little. So she says
'Oh, Dran'ma, what _big eyes_ you dot!' An' nen
The old Wolf says: 'They're ist big thataway
'Cause I'm so dlad to see you!'

Nen she says,--
'Oh, Dran'ma, what a drate big nose you dot!'
Nen th' old Wolf says: 'It's ist big thataway
Ist 'cause I smell the dood things 'at you bringed
Me in the basket!'

An' nen Riding Hood
She say 'Oh-me-oh-_my_! Dran'ma! what big
White long sharp teeth you dot!'

Nen old Wolf says:
'Yes--an' they're thataway,' he says--an' drowled--
'They're thataway,' he says, 'to _eat_ you wiv!'
An' nen he ist _jump_' at her.--

But she _scream_'--
An' _scream_', she did--So's 'at the Man
'At wuz a-choppin' wood, you know,--_he_ hear,
An' come a-runnin' in there wiv his ax;
An', 'fore the old Wolf know' what he's about,
He split his old brains out an' killed him s'quick
It make' his head swim!--An' Red Riding Hood
She wuzn't hurt at all!

An' the big Man
He tooked her all safe home, he did, an' tell
Her Ma she's all right an' ain't hurt at all
An' old Wolf's dead an' killed--an' ever'thing!--
So her Ma wuz so tickled an' so proud,
She divved _him_ all the dood things t' eat they wuz
'At's in the basket, an' she tell him 'at
She's much oblige', an' say to 'call adin.'
An' story's honest _truth_--an' all _so_, too!