To The Relatives To The Intimate Friends of James Whitcomb Riley

Let Lockerbie Street, in its Lovely Brevity, be held—if you will—as a Perpetual Reservation for the Children of your Great, your Growing City, holding the House, which for many years was the Happy Home of the Poet, as a Sacred Shrine. Let your fine Civic Building, now rising in its Majesty—like the Towers of Illion—made possible by his Generous Gift of the Site, made Glorious by the touch of his hand, on its Great Cornerstone: let it—if you will—proudly bear his Name. Let either one, or both, of these Noble Things be done, for the sake of his memory. Let this, that, or any other form of a Memorial wait upon the wisdom of your Choice: but no matter what is done; how much is done; or how it is done; there is one Thing which ought not to be left undone. Every tender, slender needle, rising out of its Globular Greenness, in this humble Spray of Kentucky Pine, harbors this One Thought, this Single Plea! This is the Plea:

Let James Whitcomb Riley, skillfully cast in Bronze, simply clad in the plain blue garb of a Union Soldier Lad a Private— let him stand fur all Time, in your Circle, in the Centre, in the Heart of your City, the beloved City of his adoption. Let him stand there, under the shadow of that Mighty Shaft, the Tribute of your Grand Commonwealth, to her Valiant Sons—the Soldier, the Sailor. Let him stand there, on a one-piece Pedestal of Indiana Stone; Simple, Massive. Thereon carve his Name, the date of his Birth; the date of his Death; and these Immortal words: