At Broad Ripple.

Ah, Luxury! Beyond the heat
And dust of town, with dangling feet,
Astride the rock below the dam,
In the cool shadows where the calm
Rests on the stream again, and all
Is silent save the waterfall, -
bait my hook and cast my line,
And feel the best of life is mine.

No high ambition may I claim -
angle not for lordly game
Of trout, or bass, or wary bream -
black perch reaches the extreme
Of my desires; and "goggle-eyes"
Are not a thing that I despise;
A sunfish, or a "chub," or "cat" -
A "silver-side" - yea, even that!

In eloquent tranquility
The waters lisp and talk to me.
Sometimes, far out, the surface breaks,
As some proud bass an instant shakes
His glittering armor in the sun,
And romping ripples, one by one,
Come dallying across the space
Where undulates my smiling face.

The river's story flowing by,
Forever sweet to ear and eye,
Forever tenderly begun -
Forever new and never done.
Thus lulled and sheltered in a shade
Where never feverish cares invade,
I bait my hook and cast my line,
And feel the best of life is mine.

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

Their Sweet Sorrow.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Home-Going.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Life Lesson

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Mylo Jones's Wife

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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A Dream Of Sunshine

I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways
Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase--
The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie
And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by,
Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's call
Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all;
And by my side should be a friend--a trusty, genial friend,
With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend;
Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring--
For then I'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King!

How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float
Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat--
Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be,
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Catching Speckled Trout.

In early days, when streams ran pure,
Untainted from their spring,
Unchok'd by sawmill dust, or logs,
Or any other thing,

Each river, creek and rill ran on,
So pure, and free, and bright,
That through the gloomy shades, they shed
A cheerful, happy light.

The finny tribes, of varied kinds,
Ran swiftly to and fro,
And with most swift and graceful dart,
The speckl'd trout did go.

So swift to dash, and quick to see,
He caught the fatal fly,
Before less active fishes had
E'en turn'd to it their eye;

For, ever active and alert,
At once, or not at all,
He caught the tempting bait he saw
Upon the waters fall.

These were the days to angler dear,
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On The Banks O' Deer Crick.

    On the banks o' Deer Crick!    There's the place fer me! -
    Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be: -
    See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o' the sky,
    And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' by;
    Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the trees -
    And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine and the breeze!
    Well - I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea:
    On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me!

    On the banks o' Deer Crick - mild er two from town -
    'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafin' down, -
    Like to git up in there - 'mongst the sycamores -
    And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she pours:
    Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line,
    Where the fish...

James Whitcomb Riley

Camping On The Cumberland.

Where the Cumberland flows on its way to the South,
From its source in the hills half-way to its mouth--
When Autumn has come and tempered the rays
Of the hot blazing sun with its soft mellow haze,
Is an Eden of bliss and a place of delight,
When the minnows are good and the "jumpers" will bite,
And a fellow's well fixed with a reel and a pole,
And other "equipments"--(of which I've been told)!

To camp there and fish for a week at a time,
And have the four-pounders just tug at your line,
Is a feeling akin to sweet visions we see
When we dream of that home where we all hope to be;
And no king in the world who sits on a throne
E'er felt the rare joy that thrills to the bone
When you throw out your line and it whizzes away,
Just cutting the water to foamy white ...

George W. Doneghy

The Old Swimmin'-Hole

"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole."


"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!    In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
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James Whitcomb Riley

The Dam Below The Mill.

The Springtime am a-comin', and the dogwood soon will bloom,
With the blossoms ten times thicker than the green leaves are in June,
And if yer want some pleasure that I nominate divine,
Just git yer minnow bucket, and yer hook and pole and line,
And slip away some mornin', when the weather's bright and still,
And hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

There are lots of other pleasures in the old world here below,
And a mighty heap of happiness a feller 'll never know--
But never mind about 'em--just yer slip away and feel
That something so delectable that over yer will steal;
For it sets the pulses beatin' with a magic kind of thrill
When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

When yer 'gin to take the fever, and yer feel it comin' on,

George W. Doneghy