Mr. Riley made his home in Indianapolis from the time judge
Martindale invited him to join The Journal's forces, and no one
of her citizens was more devoted, nor was any so universally
loved and honored. Everywhere he went the tribute of quick
recognition and cheery greeting was paid him, and his home was
the shrine of every visiting Hoosier. High on a sward of velvet
grass stands a dignified middle-aged brick house. A dwarfed
stone wall, broken by an iron gate, guards the front lawn, while
in the rear an old-fashioned garden revels in hollyhocks and wild
roses. Here among his books and his souvenirs the poet spent his
happy andncontented days. To reach this restful spot, the
pilgrim must journey to Lockerbie Street, a miniature
thoroughfare half hidden between two more commanding avenues. It
is little more than a lane, shaded, unpaved and from end to end
no longer than a five minutes' walk, but its fame is for all
time.

"Such a dear little street it is, nestled away
From the noise of the city and heat of the day,
In cool shady coverts of whispering trees,
With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the breeze
Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet
With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie Street!"


Riley never married. He lived with devoted, loyal and
understanding friends, a part of whose life he became many years
ago. Kindly consideration, gentle affection, peace and order,--
all that go to make home home, were found here blooming with the