O! James Whitcomb Riley!

Once, when under the Spell of a Mystic Mood,

you sought—as you had often sought before—that

Wise Wizard of White River.

He met you, when you came into that Peaceful

Indiana Valley—where dwells this Wizard—by the

Flowing Fountain of those Healing Waters.

He knew your need; he spoke no unnecessary word;

he quickly set his place in order, and was ready

to go with you—anywhere.

There had been, on your arrival, a clamor to have

you Read that afternoon—but the Wizard

quietly slipped you away.

Out into the Open you drove, in an old Barouche,

behind a Pair of Good Horses.

It was a long Drive; it was a beautiful Drive.

It was driven in Silence.

After several hours—the spell was still upon you—a

sharp turn brought you to the Banks of White River;

and there—under a Clump of the Sycamore, of the

Willow, in a deep, Shady Pool, an Eddy, undisturbed

by the current of the broad, shallow Stream—a

Batch of Boys, swimming, chattering, diving.

"Stop" you said to the driver; "Come here" you called to the Lads.

They came trooping, dripping, out of the Pool.

A change came over you; flinging off your coat,

your hat, you arose to your feet.

There they stood before you, naked, unabashed, curious.

A complacent smile, flickered across the bearded

face of the Wise Wizard. He must have known!

He must have timed your arrival at that particular

spot, at that particular moment.

But even the Wizard could not have known what was to follow.

Without a word of explanation, you gave them, that

crowd of naked Boys—gave it, as you had never

given it before, doubtless, as you never

gave it again—your