dely quoted at the time.

Soon after this I made a trip to Memphis, thus gaining my first
impression of the South. Like most northern visitors, I was immediately
and intensely absorbed in the negroes. Their singing entranced me, and
my hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Judah, hired a trio of black minstrels to come in
and perform for me. Their songs so moved me, and I became so interested
in one old negro's curious chants that I fairly wore them out with
demands for their most characteristic spirituals. Some of the hymns were
of such sacred character that one of the men would not sing them. "I
ain't got no right to sing dem songs," he said.

In Atlanta I met Joel Chandler Harris, who had done so much to portray
the negro's inner kindliness, as well as his singularly poetic outlook.
Harris was one of the editors of the _Atlanta Constitution_, and there I
found him in a bare, prosaic office, a short, shy, red-haired man whom I
liked at once. Two nights later I was dining with James A. Herne and
William Dean Howells in New York City, and the day following I read some
of my verses for the Nineteenth Century Club. At the end of March I was
again at my desk in Chicago.

These sudden changes of scene, these dramatic meetings, so typical of my
life for many years, took away all sense of drudgery, all routine
weariness. Seldom remaining in any one place long enough to become bored
I had little chance to bore others. Literary clubs welcomed my readings
and lectures; and, being vigorous and of good digestion, I accepted
travel as a diversion as well as a business. As a student of American
life, I was resolved to know every phase of it.

Among my pleasant jobs I recall the putting into shape of a "Real
Conversation" with James Whitcomb Riley, the material for which had been
gained in a visit to Greenfield, Riley's native town, during August of
the previous year.

My first meeting with Riley had been in Boston at a time when I was a
penniless student and he the shining, highly-paid lecturer; and I still
suffered a feeling of wonder that a poet--any poet--could demand such
pay. I did not resent it--I only marveled at it--for in our conversation
he had made his philosophy plain.

"Tell of the things just like they was, they don't need no excuse," one
of his characters said. "Don't tech 'em up as the poets does till
they're all too fine fer use," and in his talk with me Riley quaintly
added, "Nature is good enough for God, it's good enough for