This is the simple character sketch in which there is romance treated with a fine reserve.  It employs the local color so characteristic of Mr. Riley’s poems of Indiana.

A NEST-EGG

[Footnote:  From Volume VI of the Biographical Edition of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1913.  Used by special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company.]

But a few miles from the city here, and on the sloping banks of the stream noted more for its plenitude of “chubs” and “shiners” than the gamier two-and four-pound bass for which, in season, so many credulous anglers flock and lie in wait, stands a country residence, so convenient to the stream, and so inviting in its pleasant exterior and comfortable surroundings—­barn, dairy, and spring-house—­that the weary, sunburnt, and disheartened fisherman, out from the dusty town for a day of recreation, is often wont to seek its hospitality.  The house in style of architecture is something of a departure from the typical farmhouse, being designed and fashioned with no regard to symmetry or proportion, but rather, as is suggested, built to conform to the matter-of-fact and most sensible ideas of its owner, who, if it pleased him, would have small windows where large ones ought to be, and vice versa, whether they balanced properly to the eye or not.  And chimneys—­he would have as many as he wanted, and no two alike, in either height or size.  And if he wanted the front of the house turned from all possible view, as though abashed at any chance of public scrutiny, why, that was his affair and not the public’s; and, with like perverseness, if he chose to thrust his kitchen under the public’s very nose, what should the generally fagged-out, half-famished representative of that dignified public do but reel in his dead minnow, shoulder his fishing-rod, clamber over the back fence of the old farmhouse and inquire within, or jog back to the city, inwardly anathematizing that very particular locality or the whole rural district in general.  That is just the way that farmhouse looked to the writer of this sketch one week ago—­so individual it seemed—­so liberal, and yet so independent.  It wasn’t even weather-boarded, but, instead, was covered smoothly with some cement, as though the plasterers had come while the folks were visiting, and so, unable to get at the interior, had just plastered the outside.

I am more than glad that I was hungry enough, and weary enough, and wise enough to take the house at its first suggestion; for, putting away my fishing-tackle for the morning, at least, I went up the sloping bank, crossed the dusty road, and confidently clambered over the fence.

Not even a growling dog to intimate that I was trespassing.  All was open—­gracious-looking—­pastoral.  The sward beneath my feet was velvet-like in elasticity, and the scarce visible path I followed through it led promptly to the open kitchen door.  From within I heard a woman singing some old ballad in an undertone, while at the threshold a trim, white-spurred rooster stood poised on one foot, curving his glossy neck and cocking his wattled head as though to catch the meaning of the words.  I paused.  It was a scene I felt restrained from breaking in upon, nor would I, but for the sound of a strong male voice coming around the corner of the house: