It is stated by Oliver H. Smith that this poem originally appeared as a New Year's "carriers' address" of the Indianapolis Journal in 1830,[3] and this statement has commonly been followed by other writers, but this is clearly erroneous, as any one may see by inspection of the files of the Journal, for it printed its address in the body of the paper in 1830, and it is a totally different production. After that year it discontinued this practice and issued its addresses on separate sheets, as is commonly done at present. No printed copy of the original publication is in existence, so far as known, but Mr. Finley's daughter--Mrs. Sarah Wrigley, former librarian of the Morrison Library, at Richmond, Indiana--has a manuscript copy, in the author's handwriting, which fixes the date of publication as Jan. 1, 1833. There is no reason to question this date, although Mr. Finley states in his little volume of poems printed in 1860, that this poem was written in 1830. The poem as it originally appeared was never reprinted in full, so far as is known, and in that form it is entirely unknown to the present generation, although it has been reproduced in several forms, and in two of them by direct authority of the author.[4] The author used his privilege of revising his work, and while he may have improved his poetry, he seriously marred its historical value. As the manuscript copy is presumably a literal transcript of the original publication, with possibly the exception that the title may have been added at a later date, I reproduce it here in full: ADDRESS Of the Carrier of the Indianapolis Journal, January 1, 1833. THE HOOSIER'S NEST. Compelled to seek the Muse's aid, Your carrier feels almost dismay'd When he attempts in nothing less Than verse his patrons to address, Aware how very few excel In the fair art he loves so well, And that the wight who would pursue it Must give his whole attention to it; But, ever as his mind delights To follow fancy's airy flights Some object of terrestrial mien Uncourteously obtrudes between And rudely scatters to the winds The tangled threads of thought he spins; His wayward, wild imagination Seeks objects of its own creation Where Joy and Pleasure, hand in hand, Escort him over "Fairyland," Till some imperious earth-born care Will give the order, "As you were!" From this the captious may infer That I am but a groveling cur Who would essay to pass for more Than other people take me for, So, lest my friends be led to doubt it, I think I'll say no more about it, But hope that on this noted day My annual tribute of a lay In dogg'rel numbers will suffice For such as are not over nice.