suffering, nor confronting death. This was Saturday night, July
22, 1916. On Monday afternoon and evening his body lay in state
under the dome of Indiana's capitol, while the people filed by,
thousands upon thousands. Business men were there, and
schoolgirls, matrons carrying market baskets, mothers with little
children, here and there a swarthy foreigner, old folks, too, and
well-dressed youths, here a farmer and his wife, and there a
workman in a blue jumper with his hat in his band, silent,
inarticulate, yet bidding his good-by, too. On the following
day, with only his nearest and dearest about him, all that was
mortal of the people's poet was quietly and simply laid to rest.



The Complete Works
of James Whitcomb Riley

A BACKWARD LOOK

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,
And lazily leaning back in my chair,
Enjoying myself in a general way--
Allowing my thoughts a holiday
From weariness, toil and care,--
My fancies--doubtless, for ventilation--
Left ajar the gates of my mind,--
And Memory, seeing the situation,
Slipped out in the street of "Auld Lang Syne."--