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ARDLY anybody used to know where to find it. Tucked away in a secluded nook, it is so far that almost apart from the passing play it sees the shifting scenes of events. It is so near that almost across the curbstone of the next square, or the next, is the eddying throng of the commercial district. More than fifteen years ago a poet went there to live. There fame and the tourists have followed him. Now the soft brooding quiet of the little green lane is broken by the blatant bawling of the sight-seeing autos that announce, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Lockerbie Street and Riley's residence!"

Yes, and once on a sultry summer's day as, on the front porch he refreshed himself with a cooling glass of innocent lemonade, the climax of dramatic interest was reached when the megaphone boomed hysterically, "Ladies and gentlemen, behold James Whitcomb Riley drinking a high ball!"