It was a fortunate circumstance, however, this recalling a youthful remembrance, for it led him at once into a lively discussion of that part of his career,—his early struggles,—which possess for the average person, and often for the subject himself, far more interest and fascination than any later triumphs, no matter how complete. It is doubtful if there is in the literary world, to-day, a personage whose boyhood and young manhood can approach in romance and unusual circumstances that of the author of “The Old Swimmin’ Hole.” It was almost as if it were all a chapter from a fairy tale, to see the poet sitting there, calm and dignified, and to listen to his slow speech, in well-modulated voice, and still attempt to realize of what circumstances he had been a factor, what experience he had passed through. All tradition was against his accomplishing anything in the world. How, indeed, said the good folks of the little town of Greenfield, Indiana, could anything be expected of a boy who cared nothing for school, and deserted it at the first opportunity, to take up a wandering life. It is a wonder of wonders that from such a beginning should spring a poet whose ideals are among the noblest in American literature. “Ike Walton’s Prayer,” it would seem, must have been spoken from the poet’s heart. IKE WALTON’S PRAYER. I crave, dear Lord, No boundless hoard Of gold and gear, Nor jewels fine, Nor lands, nor kine, Nor treasure-heaps of anything. Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstone I may hear The cricket sing, And have the shine Of one glad woman’s eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine:— Just the wee cot—the cricket’s chirr— Love, and the smiling face of her. I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates, and castle halls,— Give me to hear the bare footfalls Of children o’er An oaken floor, New rinsed with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby’s head; And pray thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robins’ chirps, and drone of bees, With after hushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again— The cricket’s call, And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not!