“But it burned him out,” Vachel went on. “He had a third and last period when he was not himself, when he acted the young man, and stage-managed the delusion of endless energy.” And he told the story of Roosevelt’s last visit to Springfield with great gusto, imitating Teddie’s mighty stride down through the people to the platform, the war-cries and yells of the audience, the clash of the brass-bands. “And he was not an orator, and he did not believe in the spoils system,” I interrupted maliciously. “And he did not believe in the families ruling America----” No wonder we got lost in the willows. [Illustration] _A’m ti-erd, yes a’m ti-erd, A got th’ bloo-ooes aw-fool ba-ad. Ma feet is sore; You’s awful so-ore, Ain’t ye, feet? That fellah over the-ere ’S legs is just too lo-ong. Now where’s he gwine to now? Where’s he gwine to now? I’se skeered he’ll leave me here a-lone, All a-lo-one. Say, Cap, doan go on so fa-ar, Say, boss, you sure didn’t see that tree, You cahn have no feelin’s for the view Huhhyin’ on so fass--_ (Tired Feet Blues) [Illustration: SHE SENT MORE RAIN AND LAUGHED AGAIN] XXVII. THE WILLOWS WHEN I was at Springfield I was brought before the children of the High School, where in years past the poet went to school, two thousand children in a grand auditorium. I think we could show nothing of the kind in England, an assembly of nearly all the boys and girls between the ages of twelve and sixteen in the city--white children, black children, immigrant European children promiscuously grouped, bright-faced and vivacious and feeling all-together. I was to speak to them on Russia, but before my turn came the school did twenty minutes’ practice at the school-yell. For there was a ball-match on the morrow, and as a young orator cried out to them, “We are going to win to-morrow. If the school is behind us we’ll win.” The leaders of the school-yell came out of their seats, and they leapt like Indians and flung their arms about and writhed and appealed and struck the floor with the palms of their hands and appealed again. Thus they gave “The Locomotive Yell,” which reminded me of the voice of the Purple Emperor Express in Kipling’s locomotive story “.007.” Thus they imitated a great steam-engine under full pressure of steam, laboriously and mightily and then victoriously roaring forth from the Grand Terminal-- Rah ... rah ... rah ... rah-- Spring ... field ... High ... School (repeated four times with gradual acceleration) Yea Springfield Yea Springfield Rah ... Rah ... Rah. Vachel was visibly affected. “That’s where I get my inspiration,” said he. “I just love them to death. I feel as if I’d got a snoot full o’ whisky. I just love them.”