HERE was once a certain young man who felt that he possessed the soul and talent of a painter and who had the courage of this consciousness. He rented a studio in a large city, tacked a modest tin plate on the door and began his initial sacrifices.

Early in this period he met another young man of courage, a minister. There was a mutual attraction. One day the cleric visited the studio. He examined all the sketches and canvases on the walls and in the corners; he watched the artist at his work; finally he asked: "Gruelle, where did you come from?"

"Nowhere," was the quick reply. "I, too, and it's a good place to leave," said the minister. The men shook hands.

A few days later the newly found friend came again to the studio and brought with him a third young man of purpose, another in that city who had come from "Nowhere." This one was a poet, a singer of beautiful, homely songs. What the minister and the artist had seen in each other he saw in them and they in him-a profound, worshipful love of nature, beauty and truth. The three became at once more than friends and the studio more than an occasional meeting place.

The influence of the work of one soon began to be seen in the work of another. Many sermons were preached which had their inception in a colour

scheme. A beautiful metaphor found illustration in the shadow play of a landscape. A word of experience from the adviser of men, and a new song would be sung. They discussed quantities, real and otherwise. What was in the heart of one became unconsciously a burden or a joy of the others. The soul of naturalness and sincerity was in common among the compatriots from "Nowhere."

The circle was broken when Reed, the minister, answered a call to a distant pastorate. It seemed, however, that his departure drew the poet and the artist. more closely together. Hours in the studio, hours in the writer's home, planning and playing, dreaming and doing, a high, inspiring comradeship of idealssuch state was theirs. And thus thirty long years passed. In this time the poet found a place in the hearts of his countrymen and the artist came into his own.

The work of the singer is finished now, he says that of the painter but in the fulness of its early promise. The one still dwells on Lockerbie Street in the old Nickum mansion, which is so full of the ghosts of happy children. A thousand miles away in a picturesque Connecticut mill on Silver Mine-a distant cousin of the Indiana Brandywine-is a new studio, and there, suspended above the cataract, the artist mixes his colours. Recently he headed an exploration of the lower stream. Resting, at length, on a huge boulder below a little rocky island, where

Jim never grew up, in some respects. That is one reason why he attracted and held me always. When Reed brought him into my studio that first day I seemed to see at once that he was still a boy at heart. And he has never lost this wonderful, unspoiled naturalness of youth.

You know, when he was a lad he lived in plays and brave purposes the works he followed later in life. He aspired to be a painter and began his career with charcoal and brick dust daubs on the neighbourhood fences-to follow really the art commercially when he had grown up. He dreamed of a life as a showman and got up circuses and plays with the other boys and alone. Once he gave a performance to empty soap boxes in his backyard, from beginning to end, even though his pen and ink bills had failed to attract any spectators. He finally became a star on the lecture platform. And he used to make up little jingles and scribble them on the walls at home-rhymes about the things great in childhood and close to the heart. It was a beautiful development of ideals, wasn't it?

Often and often he would talk to me about his boyish dreams and deeds with as much enthusiasm as if they had been achievements. He always personified the creatures of his imagination. Why, he knew "Little Orphant Annie" in just the same way as the child who spent a whole morning gathering daisies for a bouquet which she asked her mamma to send to the "poor girl who could make up such fine stories 'bout goblins and things." He knew perfectly well that the tree toad was happy and why, and what it said when it sang. There were fairies in the flowers and giants in the deep, dark woods to him, for he did more than write about them. He believed in them. Way down in his big heart he had a place for every superstition dear to the little folk.

Jim has never changed from this state of heart simplicity, which I recognised and admired and found so much pleasure and good in back in '79. He was just in the beginning of his great career then, was for the first time able to get along

without, for instance, taking advantage of an extra price offered by an editor. Yes, such a thing really happened. It was like this:

You probably remember his "Ode to Summer." There is a line in it, "the shuttle of summer, etcetra," as nearly as I can remember, and that expression caused all sorts of trouble. One editor after another had rejected the verse simply on account of "the shuttle of summer." They said it was without meaning, inelegant, cheaply illiterative, and goodness knows what else. Finally, however, there was an editor who accepted the poem, and he wrote that the particular part of it which had touched him was that beautiful bit of imagery in the line about the shuttle. In this letter he enclosed a cheque with the word that if it wasn't enough more would be forthcoming at once. This complication made a deep impression on Riley. He came to the studio to show me the letter and, after I had read it, he said:

"Gruelle, poetry, music, painting,-a song, a sunset or a symphony"—I remem ber his exact words "is nothing but the expression of one heart, one soul. In this expression there may be reflected a great, universal note-but it remains primarily the voice of some ego. And who shall judge your soul or mine, except when its expression finds an affinitive chord?"

The assistance which Longfellow had given him was about that time beginning to be seen in Riley's work. Following all the attention and comment occasioned by "Leonainie," his imitation of Edgar Allan Poe, which had appeared in the Kokomo Dispatch, Jim had felt that he must have advice that was worth while. You know such critics as Bryant and Stedman had declared the poem to be unquestionably the work of Poe, and this authority had given widespread circulation to the story of the joke when it became known. But Riley wasn't proud of it even then. I believe that he has often regretted it. At any rate, he bundled up a collection of his verses and sent them to Longfellow with the request that the poet inform lum whether or not they had any merit or were mere trash.

There began then an intimate corre

spondence and friendship between Jim and the New England writer which was beautiful to see. The verses were returned and the Indianian advised to do two things-one, keep on writing; the other, get in touch with and consult whenever in doubt some man who had enjoyed a superior literary education. Jim followed both, a certain Indianapolis lawyer acting for many years in this advisory capacity. It was a long time before the two poets met, but they did, of course. It wasn't

in the nature of things that they shouldn't. Jim used to tell me over and over again about the "grey-haired, sweet, old man who was so kind to him." was never tired of quoting "Amalfi," which was his favourite of all poetry.

He

At this stage, as well as later, all of Riley's work was inspirational in inception if not in plan. He'd sit far into the night under the spell of some idea and ofttimes then for days would toil over its perfection. He was ever a thorough, painstaking workman. He used to meet me on the street, or come to the studio, or call me out to Nickum's, or over to the Denison, when he lived there, to discuss this or that new thought which had come to him. Maybe we would talk this over on a dozen different occasions. Sometimes I would almost forget the idea, it would take him so long to evolve it completely and satisfactorily. Then, some day, like a boy with the first boat he had whittled out, he would hunt me up and read me some lines, the lines.

In spite of his conclusions regarding a song, a sunset or a symphony, he would always court the fullest expression of opinion of his work from his few intimates. Otherwise he was jealous of favourable judgment, hyper-sensitive in many respects. This temperamentality was evident in many ways-even to the matter of dress. Why, he even blackened the feet of his sister's white stockings which he had to wear to his first party so that a tiny break in his shoes would not show. And several times when he was connected with the Journal in Indianapolis he was seen to be secretly applying ink to a glossy coat sleeve. Did you ever hear about the "Balm of a thousand flowers?"

I met Jim early one morning on Market

Street. He was chuckling to himself as he asked me if John, my son, was "touchy" about his freckles. I replied that I didn't think he was unreasonably so, and then Jim told me why he had put the question.

"I used to have a terrible time with my freckles," he said. "It seemed to me then and it does now that I had more than any other boy who ever lived. The fellows and the girls used to joke about them, and what they said hurt. Yes, it did. You can't know how much it hurts to have folks make sport of such a fearful infirmity unless you've been afflicted.

"Well, one day at the drug store on the corner I saw advertised 'The Balm of a thousand flowers,' a sure cure for freckles, blackheads, rough skin, tan and everything else imaginable, and my heart gave a great thump. If I could only get a bottle. But the price was fifty centsprohibitive!

"One morning I was sent to the chemist's on an errand before school-I was attending a small private institution then. Since my discovery there I had almost haunted the shop, a sort of self-appointed guardian of that magical balm, hoping all the time that some good fairy would come along and provide me with a bottle. Do you know what I found there that morning? A hole in the showcase right where the Balm was placed. Yes, I got a bottle when the clerk's back was turned, and as soon as I could hurry away I made for our barn and gave my face a good washing with the lotion. Then I went to school, but I didn't stay there very long. As soon as I entered the room the pupils began to laugh and the teacher called me to her. James,' she said, 'go straight home and don't come back until you have washed your face.' I couldn't imagine what it was all about, but I went home and looked in the mirror. My face was as red as a beet. Then I rushed out to the barn and read the directions on the bottle of Balm. They said to use a teaspoonful to a pint of water!

"Some time ago I wrote a little story about my experience with the wonderful freckle cure, and it was published in a children's magazine. Now I've just gotten this letter.'

Jim read me the note. It was from a

little boy somewhere down in Texas. He had read the story of the Balm in the magazine and was writing the author to know where he "could get some of it, for he had awful freckles and would be careful to mix it right and would give anything he had to get rid of them." Of course, Riley sent him a bottle at once, or if he wasn't able to get the Balm he sent something equally as bad. And he framed that letter.

On account of this sensitiveness and the almost inordinate pride which it sometimes induced, Jim was led to do a lot of things a bit unusual. As far as the matter of travelling is concerned Riley is very peculiar. He seemed to be unable to get on a train and go straight to another town. He would invariably get off at the first station and take the next train, thinking it was the one he had been on. When he found himself again in Indianapolis he would wonder greatly how that had happened.

Two other noticeable traits were these: He never wished himself called a poet in manuscript in which he had any part of the making. Rhymster, singer, writer of jingles, and the like, he seemed to prefer. The world might call him what it willed, but to himself he preferred to be known as a singer of songs. The other trait has always been his willingness to assist in any way young writers, no matter how much trouble he had to take. Several Indiana men and women owe him a great debt. There was not an ounce of professional jealousy in his makeup.

Some people called these eccentricities -for example his fulfilment of a hopeless lecture engagement in a certain indiana city. Bundy, the Richmond artist, was the prime cause of it, but not of the disaster which it met. He had thought to do Jim, his friend, a favour, and so arranged for him to read some of his verses in the largest church in this place. Jim was only too glad, and set about at once painting some bills, which in due time Bundy had displayed prominently about town.

But Jim had used too much red paint on his paper. The place wasn't any more than billed before the officers of the church met and decided that there must

be something very sensational about the entertainment of that fellow Riley, and so refused the use of the church. Bundy became very busy at once, but the best arrangement he could finally make was that Jim could lecture in the church, but would not be allowed to charge any admission. If he wanted to he might take up a collection at the end of the performance, after those present had had opportunity to judge of his morals as an entertainer.

This was the situation when Riley arrived in town from Greenfield. His pride was piqued. Under no circumstances would he have foregone appearing on that platform, even though he had barely enough money for his railroad fare. So he came to the church that evening, and by the time he was ready to begin the house was packed with people. He read well, as he always did, and from the amount and enthusiasm of applause he had reason to believe that he had made a hit. Then the basket was passed-and a fine collection of vest buttons, pins, wads of paper, pencil stubs and matches was harvested. There was not one cent in all of this rubbish. Jim's overcoat-the lining turned out, as it was the best part of the garment-paid for his hack fare to the station. Do you think for a minute he would walk and confess any discomfort? No, siree!

In this connection there are many stories which might be told of Riley as a so-called eccentric. The fact that one night he was taken for the villain in a play showing at English's and that when several nervous women spied him on Meridian Street under an electric light and made a movement to capture him and show their displeasure in a strenuous way, he used his legs and went away from there with some speed—that wouldn't make him peculiar from his fellow-men, would it? One night he and Reed were on an old Pennsylvania Street mule car when the motive power ran away. It wasn't unusual that they took charge of the expedition and finaly stopped the team, and in doing so had a lot of fun as they said-was it? And other adventures and mishaps, sometimes: it was his ebullience of youth and his simplicity-mistaken for the misnamed complexity of genius--which ac