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!

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:

Let James Whitcomb Riley,

skillfully cast in Bronze, simply clad in the plain

blue garb of a Union Soldier Lad a Private—

let him stand fur all Time, in your Circle, in the Centre,

in the Heart of your City, the beloved City of his adoption.

Let him stand there, under the shadow of that

Mighty Shaft, the Tribute of your Grand Commonwealth,

to her Valiant Sons—the Soldier, the Sailor.

Let him stand there, on a one-piece Pedestal

of Indiana Stone; Simple, Massive.

Thereon carve his Name, the date of his Birth;

the date of his Death; and these Immortal words:

"Well, Goodby, Jim:

Take Keer of Yourse'f!"

Read, re-read, and read again, the Poem.

That Poem is an American Classic!

It is the Epitome of Self-Sacrifice

for the Sake of a Vital Cause!

It is the one Idyl of the Middle-West!

It is thoroughly America!

It is intensely Indiana!

Pardon the Plea!

But Prepare the Way!

Turn the Page—read the Poem!

Old man never had much to say—

'Ceptin' to Jim.—

And Jim was the wildest boy he had—

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him!

Never heerd him speak but once

Er twice in my life,—and first time was

When the army broke out, and Jim he went,

The old man backin' him, fer three months;

And all 'at I heerd the old man say

Was jes' as we turned to start away,—

"Well, good-by, Jim:

Take keer of yourse'f!"