Pray deem it not, all too presumptuous, this humble
  Spray of Kentucky Pine! 
  It serves as a Reverent Tribute to the One! 
  As a Loving Commemoration to the Other!

The Interlude

—­Holding Two Telegrams And A Plea—­

I.

When the word came that James Whitcomb Riley was Dead this Telegram was sent to a near Relative an astute Man of Affairs who with the Head of a Great Publishing House—­a Prime Favorite from his early Boyhood of the Poet—­held his well-placed Confidence in all matters concerning the necessary material Things of Life.

  The mightiest Monarch of the Indiana Forest
    lies prone upon his Native Soil! 
  This Man From Down On The Farm,
  Reverently, sends this humble Spray of Kentucky Pine,
  as a Symbol, ever-green, of his Lasting Love, for the Dead Poet: 
  as a Symbol, made manifest, of his deep Sympathy,
  for You, for Yours.

II.

This Message was wired to a most Gentle Lady who had meant so much in so many ways to James Whitcomb Riley appealing as she did to the Best to the Highest in his Nature and who was indeed a “Ministering Angel” when “Pain and Anguish” wrung his brow, racked his frail body where lingered its Tenant his Immortal Soul!

  Tenderly, Lovingly, let the Fair Elaine cherish
    the Shield Invincible of her Sir Launcelot! 
  Some Day—­Some Glad Day—­she too, will go upward
  with the Flood, in the Dark Barge, decked with Flowers: 
  clasping in her Beautiful Hand of Gentle Service,
  the Lily of Fidelity:  floating with the Mystic
  Tide, to meet again—­at Towered Camelot—­
  —­her Gallant, her Waiting Knight! 
  For Love shares with the Soul its Precious Immortality!

III.

The Plea

—­To The Relatives To The Intimate Friends of James Whitcomb Riley—­

  Let Lockerbie Street, in its Lovely Brevity,
    be held—­if you will—­as a Perpetual Reservation
  for the Children of your Great, your Growing City,
  holding the House, which for many years was the
  Happy Home of the Poet, as a Sacred Shrine. 
  Let your fine Civic Building, now rising in its
  Majesty—­like the Towers of Illion—­made possible
  by his Generous Gift of the Site, made Glorious
  by the touch of his hand, on its Great Cornerstone: 
  let it—­if you will—­proudly bear his Name. 
  Let either one, or both, of these Noble Things
  be done, for the sake of his memory. 
  Let this, that, or any other form of a Memorial wait upon
  the wisdom of your Choice:  but no matter what is done;
  how much is done; or how it is done; there is one Thing
  which ought not to be left undone. 
  Every tender, slender needle, rising out of its
  Globular Greenness, in this humble Spray of Kentucky Pine,
  harbors this One Thought, this Single Plea! 
  This is the Plea: