Armazindy Page #2

James Whitcomb Riley poems book published in the 1894 book Armazindy and received very negative reviews that referred to poems like "The Little Dog-Woggy" and "Jargon-Jingle" as "drivel" and to Riley as a "worn out genius". Most of his growing number of critics suggested that he ignored the quality of the poems for the sake of making money.

• Poetry

								

  Fer to let her have her own
  Way about it.—But a-goin’
  Past to town, they’d stop and see
  “Armazindy’s fambily,”
  As they’d allus laugh and say,
  And look sorry right away,
  Thinkin’ of her Pap, and how
  He’d indorse his “Soldier” now!
  ’Course she couldn’t never be
  Much in young-folks’ company—
  Plenty of in-vites to go,
  But das’t leave the house, you know—
  ’Less’n Sund’ys sometimes, when
  Some old Granny’d come and ’ten’
  Things, while Armazindy has
  Got away fer Church er “Class.”
  Most the youngsters liked her—and
  ’Twuzn’t hard to understand,—
  Fer, by time she wuz sixteen,
  Purtier girl you never seen—
  ’Ceptin’ she lacked schoolin’, ner
  Couldn’t rag out stylisher—
  Like some neighber-girls, ner thumb
  On their blame’ melodium,
  Whilse their pore old mothers sloshed
  Round the old back-porch and washed
  Their clothes fer ’em—rubbed and scrubbed
  Fer girls’d ort to jes be’n clubbed!

  —And jes sich a girl wuz Jule
  Reddinhouse.—She’d be’n to school
  At New Thessaly, i gum!—
  Fool before, but that he’pped some—
  ’Stablished-like more confidence
  ’At she never had no sense.
  But she wuz a cunnin’, sly,
  Meek and lowly sort o’ lie,
  ’At men-folks like me and you
  B’lieves jes ’cause we ortn’t to.—
  Jes as purty as a snake,
  And as pizen—mercy sake!
  Well, about them times it wuz,
  Young Sol Stephens th’ashed fer us;
  And we sent him over to
  Armazindy’s place to do
  Her work fer her.—And-sir! Well—
  Mighty little else to tell,—
  Sol he fell in love with her—
  Armazindy Ballenger!

  Bless ye!—’Ll, of all the love
  ’At I’ve ever yit knowed of,
  That-air case o’ theirn beat all!
  W’y, she worshipped him!—And Sol,
  ’Peared-like, could ’a’ kissed the sod
  (Sayin’ is) where that girl trod!
  Went to town, she did, and bought
  Lot o’ things ’at neighbers thought
  Mighty strange fer her to buy,—
  Raal chintz dress-goods—and ’way high!—
  Cut long in the skyrt,—also
  Gaiter-pair o’ shoes, you know;
  And lace collar;—yes, and fine
  Stylish hat, with ivy-vine
  And red ribbons, and these-’ere
  Artificial flowers and queer
  Little beads and spangles, and
  Oysturch-feathers round the band!
  Wore ’em, Sund’ys, fer a while—
  Kindo’ went to Church in style,
  Sol and Armazindy!—Tel
  It was noised round purty well
  They wuz promised.—And they wuz—
  Sich news travels—well it does!—
  Pity ’at that did!—Fer jes
  That-air fac’ and nothin’ less
  Must ’a’ putt it in the mind
  O’ Jule Reddinhouse to find
  Out some dratted way to hatch
  Out some plan to break the match—
  ’Cause she done it!—How? they’s none
  Knows adzac’ly what she done;
  Some claims she writ letters to
  Sol’s folks, up nigh Pleasant View
  Somers—and described, you see,
  “Armazindy’s fambily”—
  Hintin’ “ef Sol married her,
  He’d jes be pervidin’ fer
  Them-air twins o’ hern, and old
  Palsied aunt ’at couldn’t hold
  Spoon to mouth, and layin’ near
  Bedrid’ on to eighteen year’,
  And still likely, ’pearantly,
  To live out the century!”
  Well—whatever plan Jule laid
  Out to reach the p’int she made,
  It wuz desper’t.—And she won,
  Finully, by marryun
  Sol herse’f—e-lopin’, too,
  With him, like she had to do,—
  ’Cause her folks ’ud allus swore
  “Jule should never marry pore!”

  This-here part the story I
  Allus haf to hurry by,—
  Way ’at Armazindy jes
  Drapped back in her linsey dress,
  And grabbed holt her loom, and shet
  Her jaws square.—And ef she fret
  Any ’bout it—never ’peared
  Sign ’at neighbers seed er heerd;—
  Most folks liked her all the more—
  I know I did—certain-shore!—
  (’Course I’d knowed her Pap, and what
  Stock she come of.—Yes, and thought,
  And think yit, no man on earth
  ’S worth as much as that girl’s worth!)

  As fer Jule and Sol, they had
  Their sheer!—less o’ good than bad!—
  Her folks let her go.—They said,
  “Spite o’ them she’d made her bed
  And must sleep in it!”—But she,
  ’Peared-like, didn’t sleep so free
  As she ust to—ner so late,
  Ner so fine, I’m here to state!—
  Sol wuz pore, of course, and she
  Wuzn’t ust to poverty—
  Ner she didn’t ’pear to jes
  ’Filiate with lonesomeness,—
  ’Cause Sol he wuz off and out
  With his th’asher nigh about
  Half the time; er, season done,
  He’d be off mi-anderun
  Round the country, here and there,
  Swoppin’ hosses. Well, that-air
  Kind o’ livin’ didn’t suit
  Jule a bit!—and then, to boot,
  She had now the keer o’ two
  Her own childern—and to do
  Her own work and cookin’—yes,
  And sometimes fer hands, I guess,
  Well as fambily of her own.—
  Cut her pride clean to the bone!
  So how could the whole thing end?—
  She set down, one night, and penned
  A short note, like—’at she sewed
  On the childern’s blanket—blowed
  Out the candle—pulled the door
  To close after her—and, shore-
  Footed as a cat is, clumb
  In a rigg there and left home,
  With a man a-drivin’ who
  “Loved her ever fond and true,”
  As her note went on to say,
  When Sol read the thing next day.

  Raally didn’t ’pear to be
  Extry waste o’ sympathy
  Over Sol—pore feller!—Yit,
  Sake o’ them-air little bit
  O’ two orphants—as you might
  Call ’em then, by law and right,—
  Sol’s old friends wuz sorry, and
  Tried to hold him out their hand
  Same as allus: But he’d flinch—
  Tel, jes ’peared-like, inch by inch,
  He let all holts go; and so
  Took to drinkin’, don’t you know,—
  Tel, to make a long tale short,
  He wuz fuller than he ort
  To ’a’ be’n, at work one day
  ’Bout his th’asher, and give way,
  Kindo’-like, and fell and ketched
  In the beltin’.
                ... Rid and fetched
  Armazindy to him.—He
  Begged me to.—But time ’at she
  Reached his side, he smiled and tried
  To speak.—Couldn’t. So he died....
  Hands all turned and left her there
  And went somers else—somewhere.
  Last, she called us back—in clear
  Voice as man’ll ever hear—
  Clear and stiddy, ’peared to me,
  As her old Pap’s ust to be.—
  Give us orders what to do
  ’Bout the body—he’pped us, too.
  So it wuz, Sol Stephens passed
  In Armazindy’s hands at last.
  More’n that, she claimed ’at she
  Had consent from him to be
  Mother to his childern—now
  ’Thout no parents anyhow.

  Yes-sir! and she’s got ’em, too,—
  Folks saw nothin’ else ’ud do—
  So they let her have her way—
  Like she’s doin’ yit to-day!
  Years now, I’ve be’n coaxin’ her—
  Armazindy Ballenger—
  To in-large her fambily
  Jes one more by takin’ me—
  Which I’m feared she never will,
  Though I’m ’lectioneerin’ still.

THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED

  O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!
  What canopied king might not covet the joy?
  The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
  Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:
  The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
  But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.
  O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
  Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed!
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