the word that we needed most?

James Whitcomb Riley was born at Greenfield, Indiana, in 1853. His
father was a lawyer and farmer combined. While he did the legal work
of the village, he also owned a farm at the edge of town. As he was a
good speaker he was in constant demand in that part of the state to
speak on all kinds of occasions. Generally, on these trips, he took
young James along; thus it was that the lad acquired a desire to
travel that it took years of his after life to satisfy.

It was from his mother that James received his talent for writing
poetry. Though never a poet, she was exceedingly apt, as were all her
people, in writing rhymes. The beautiful tributes that Riley, later in
life, paid his mother show that she always understood and helped
him.

Greenfield, during the boyhood days of Riley, was not the kind of
town we think of as producing poets. There were no mountains to
kindle the imagination, and no babbling brooks to encourage
meditation. In every direction were broad stretches of level land
largely covered with forests that still remained untouched. Between
these forest stretches were patches of land that were cultivated by
hand; for at that time there was but little farm machinery. The
greatest single task of the people was to clear the forests and bring
the soil under cultivation. Greenfield was, therefore, in part an
agricultural town and in part a lumber town. Like most small towns,
it was slow-moving and uninteresting. The scenes most frequented were
the loafing places.

As there was very little in Greenfield for a lad to do, James' father
very often pressed him into service planting and cultivating corn, but
he never liked it. While at first we are inclined to regret this, we
wonder, had farm life appealed to him, whether he would have made a
great poet.

Years later in speaking of his lack of experience in real farm life
Mr. Riley says: "Sometimes some real country boy gives me the round
turn on some farm points. For instance, here comes one slipping up to
me, 'You never lived on a farm,' he says. 'Why not'? says I. 'Well,'
he says, 'a turkey-cock _gobbles_, but he doesn't _ky-ouck_ as your
poetry says.' He has me right there. It's the turkey-hen that
_ky-oucks_. 'Well, you'll never hear another turkey-cock of mine
_ky-ouckin_,' says I. But generally I hit on the right symbols. I get
the frost on the pumpkin and the fodder in the shock; and I see the
frost on the old axe they split