working with patent medicine shows until he took up with the
Indianapolis Journal
and began writing dialect poems. The public adored them. From then on Riley was a rousing success, turning out favorites such as “When the Frost Is on the Punkin,” “Little Orphant Annie,” and “The Raggedy Man.”
The secret of Riley’s success seems to have been the combination of sentimental, homey subjects with a homespun philosophy—and often a heavy touch of Hoosier dialect, heavy on slang and apostrophes and light on grammar and final
gs.
Only Riley could write lines such as “Good’s ’bout ’leventy-hunnerd times better than gold!” Perhaps only Riley would want to.
The Smitten Purist And the Charming Miss Smith’s Effect upon Him
Thweet Poethy! let me
lithp
forthwith,
That I may thhing of the name of Smith—
Which name, alath!
In Harmony hath
No adequate rhyme, letht you grant me thith—
That the thimple thibillant thound of eth—
(Which to thave my thoul, I can not expreth!)
Thuth I may thhingingly,
Wooingly and winningly
Thu—thu—thound in the name of Smith.
O give me a name that will rhyme with Smith,—
For wild and weird ath the sthrange name ith,
I would sthrangle a sthrain
And a thad refrain
Faint and sthweet ath a whithpered kissth;
I would thhing thome thong for the mythic mitth
Who beareth the thingular name of Smith—
The dathzling brilli-ant
Rarely rethilliant
Ap-pup-pellation of Smith!
O had I a name that would rhyme with Smith—
Thome rhythmical tincture of rethonant blith—
Thome melody rare
Ath the cherubth blare
On them little trumpeth they’re foolin’ with—
I would thit me down, and I’d thhing like thith
Of the girl of the thingular name of Smith—
The sthrangely curiouth,
Rich and luxuriouth
Pup-patrronymic of Smith.
from
The Happy Little Cripple
I’m thist a little crippled boy, an’ never goin’ to grow
An’ git a great big man at all!—’cause Aunty told me so.
When I was this a baby onc’t I failed out of the bed
An’ got “The Curv’ture of the Spine”—’ats what the Doctor said.
I never had no Mother nen—fer my Pa runned away
An’ dassn’t come back here no more—’cause he was drunk one day
An’ stobbed a man in thish-ere town, an’ couldn’t pay his fine!
An’ nen my Ma she died—an’ I got “Curv’ture of the Spine”!
I’m nine years old! an’ you can’t guess how much I weigh, I bet!
Last birthday I weighed thirty three! An’ I weigh thirty yet!
I’m awful little for my size—I’m purt’ nigh littler ‘an
Some babies is!—an’ neighbors all calls me “The Little Man!”
An’ Doc one time he laughed and said: “I ’spect, first thing you know,
You’ll have a spike-tail coat an’ travel with a show!”
An’ nen I laughed—till I looked round an’ Aunty was a-cryin’—
Sometimes she acts like that, ’cause I got “Curv’ture of the Spine!”
from
A Dubious “Old Kriss”
Us-folks is purty pore—but Ma
She’s waitin’—two years more—tel Pa
He serves his term out. Our Pa he—
He’s in the Penitenchurie!
Now don’t you tell!—’cause
Sis,
The baby,
she
don’t know he is—
’Cause she wuz only four, you know,
He kissed her last an’ hat to go!
Pa alluz liked Sis best of all
Us childern.—’Spect it’s ’cause she fall
When she ’us ist a
chiled,
one day—
An’ make her back look thataway.
Pa—’fore he be a burglar—he’s
A locksmiff, an’ maked locks, an’ keys,
An’ knobs you pull for bells to ring,
An’ he could ist make
anything!
’Cause our Ma
say
he can!—
An’
this
Here little pair of crutches Sis
Skips round on—Pa maked
them
—yessir!—
An’ silvur-plate-name here for her!
Pa’s out o’ work when Chris’mus come
One time, an’ stay away from home,
An’ ‘s drunk an’ ’buse our Ma, an’ swear
They ain’t no “Old Kriss” anywhere!
AMANDA MCKITTRICK ROS
(1860-1939)
I n
Indianapolis Journal
and began writing dialect poems. The public adored them. From then on Riley was a rousing success, turning out favorites such as “When the Frost Is on the Punkin,” “Little Orphant Annie,” and “The Raggedy Man.”
The secret of Riley’s success seems to have been the combination of sentimental, homey subjects with a homespun philosophy—and often a heavy touch of Hoosier dialect, heavy on slang and apostrophes and light on grammar and final
gs.
Only Riley could write lines such as “Good’s ’bout ’leventy-hunnerd times better than gold!” Perhaps only Riley would want to.
The Smitten Purist And the Charming Miss Smith’s Effect upon Him
Thweet Poethy! let me
lithp
forthwith,
That I may thhing of the name of Smith—
Which name, alath!
In Harmony hath
No adequate rhyme, letht you grant me thith—
That the thimple thibillant thound of eth—
(Which to thave my thoul, I can not expreth!)
Thuth I may thhingingly,
Wooingly and winningly
Thu—thu—thound in the name of Smith.
O give me a name that will rhyme with Smith,—
For wild and weird ath the sthrange name ith,
I would sthrangle a sthrain
And a thad refrain
Faint and sthweet ath a whithpered kissth;
I would thhing thome thong for the mythic mitth
Who beareth the thingular name of Smith—
The dathzling brilli-ant
Rarely rethilliant
Ap-pup-pellation of Smith!
O had I a name that would rhyme with Smith—
Thome rhythmical tincture of rethonant blith—
Thome melody rare
Ath the cherubth blare
On them little trumpeth they’re foolin’ with—
I would thit me down, and I’d thhing like thith
Of the girl of the thingular name of Smith—
The sthrangely curiouth,
Rich and luxuriouth
Pup-patrronymic of Smith.
from
The Happy Little Cripple
I’m thist a little crippled boy, an’ never goin’ to grow
An’ git a great big man at all!—’cause Aunty told me so.
When I was this a baby onc’t I failed out of the bed
An’ got “The Curv’ture of the Spine”—’ats what the Doctor said.
I never had no Mother nen—fer my Pa runned away
An’ dassn’t come back here no more—’cause he was drunk one day
An’ stobbed a man in thish-ere town, an’ couldn’t pay his fine!
An’ nen my Ma she died—an’ I got “Curv’ture of the Spine”!
I’m nine years old! an’ you can’t guess how much I weigh, I bet!
Last birthday I weighed thirty three! An’ I weigh thirty yet!
I’m awful little for my size—I’m purt’ nigh littler ‘an
Some babies is!—an’ neighbors all calls me “The Little Man!”
An’ Doc one time he laughed and said: “I ’spect, first thing you know,
You’ll have a spike-tail coat an’ travel with a show!”
An’ nen I laughed—till I looked round an’ Aunty was a-cryin’—
Sometimes she acts like that, ’cause I got “Curv’ture of the Spine!”
from
A Dubious “Old Kriss”
Us-folks is purty pore—but Ma
She’s waitin’—two years more—tel Pa
He serves his term out. Our Pa he—
He’s in the Penitenchurie!
Now don’t you tell!—’cause
Sis,
The baby,
she
don’t know he is—
’Cause she wuz only four, you know,
He kissed her last an’ hat to go!
Pa alluz liked Sis best of all
Us childern.—’Spect it’s ’cause she fall
When she ’us ist a
chiled,
one day—
An’ make her back look thataway.
Pa—’fore he be a burglar—he’s
A locksmiff, an’ maked locks, an’ keys,
An’ knobs you pull for bells to ring,
An’ he could ist make
anything!
’Cause our Ma
say
he can!—
An’
this
Here little pair of crutches Sis
Skips round on—Pa maked
them
—yessir!—
An’ silvur-plate-name here for her!
Pa’s out o’ work when Chris’mus come
One time, an’ stay away from home,
An’ ‘s drunk an’ ’buse our Ma, an’ swear
They ain’t no “Old Kriss” anywhere!
AMANDA MCKITTRICK ROS
(1860-1939)
I n
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