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James Whitcomb Riley - The Hoosier Folk-Child
Work rating: Low

The Hoosier Folk-Child--all unsung--
  Unlettered all of mind and tongue;
  Unmastered, unmolested--made
  Most wholly frank and unafraid:
  Untaught of any school--unvexed
  Of law or creed--all unperplexed--
  Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled,
  An all imperfect-perfect child--
  A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you
  And I do tardy honor to,
  And so, profane the sanctities
  Of our most sacred memories.
  Who, growing thus from boy to man,
  That dares not be American?
  Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz--
  Go _whistle_! as the Folk-Child does.

  The Hoosier Folk-Child`s world is not
  Much wider than the stable-lot
  Between the house and highway fence
  That bounds the home his father rents.
  His playmates mostly are the ducks
  And chickens, and the boy that "shucks
  Corn by the shock," and talks of town,
  And whether eggs are "up" or "down,"
  And prophesies in boastful tone
  Of "owning horses of his own,"
  And "being his own man," and "when
  He gets to be, what he`ll do then."--
  Takes out his jack-knife dreamily
  And makes the Folk-Child two or three
  Crude corn-stalk figures,--a wee span
  Of horses and a little man.

  The Hoosier Folk-Child`s eyes are wise
  And wide and round as Brownies` eyes:
  The smile they wear is ever blent
  With all-expectant wonderment,--
  On homeliest things they bend a look
  As rapt as o`er a picture-book,
  And seem to ask, whate`er befall,
  The happy reason of it all:--
  Why grass is all so glad a green,
  And leaves--and what their lispings mean;--
  Why buds grow on the boughs, and why
  They burst in blossom by and by--
  As though the orchard in the breeze
  Had shook and popped its _popcorn-trees_,
  To lure and whet, as well they might,
  Some seven-league giant`s appetite!

  The Hoosier Folk-Child`s chubby face
  Has scant refinement, caste or grace,--
  From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek,
  It bears the grimy water-streak
  Of rinsings such as some long rain
  Might drool across the window-pane
  Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown,
  As some lorn team drives by for town.
  His brow is elfed with wispish hair,
  With tangles in it here and there,
  As though the warlocks snarled it so
  At midmirk when the moon sagged low,
  And boughs did toss and skreek and shake,
  And children moaned themselves awake,
  With fingers clutched, and starting sight
  Blind as the blackness of the night!

  The Hoosier Folk-Child!--Rich is he
  In all the wealth of poverty!
  He owns nor title nor estate,
  Nor speech but half articulate,--
  He owns nor princely robe nor crown;--
  Yet, draped in patched and faded brown,
  He owns the bird-songs of the hills--
  The laughter of the April rills;
  And his are all the diamonds set.
  In Morning`s dewy coronet,--
  And his the Dusk`s first minted stars
  That twinkle through the pasture-bars,
  And litter all the skies at night
  With glittering scraps of silver light;--
  The rainbow`s bar, from rim to rim,
  In beaten gold, belongs to him.
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