Sometimes it's fun to take a little stroll down memory lane, and today being National Floral Design Day, I thought I'd share a relic from my days in the publishing business. Back in 2009, I bought an original copy of Riley Roses, a 1909 poetry collection by James Whitcomb Riley, with the intention of reissuing it as a full-color edition (all current editions of this book are in black and white.) What drew me to this particular volume were the exquisite illustrations by Howard Chandler Christy and Franklin Booth.
Unfortunately, many complications arose, and I never finished the project, but today I'm turning those lemons into lemonade by sharing with you some fresh, new scans from the book, which, as you'll see in a moment, is a veritable treasure trove of floral design. I included the entire book in this post, so you can read it from cover to cover if you'd like.
But first, a few words on the illustrators...
Howard Chandler Christy (1872-1952) was an American illustrator who is best known for the famous painting, Scene at the Signing of the Constitution of the United States, which currently hangs in the Capitol building at Washington, D. C. He also illustrated posters for the war effort during WWI and WWII, and painted portraits of six United States presidents, including Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and Harry Truman. He is the subject of An Affair with Beauty - The Mystique of Howard Chandler Christy, an ongoing biographic trilogy by James Philip Head, (the next volume of which will be published this year.) [Source: Wikipedia]
Franklin Booth (1874-1948) is best known for his detailed work with pen and ink (several examples of which we'll see here soon.) His pen and ink work was the result of some early attempts at replicating wood engravings. He, like Christy, also painted posters for the war effort during WWI, and after the war, as Art Deco became more popular, his work would be published in industrial publications, such as, for example, a series of stamps commissioned by the National Wildlife Federation in 1941. He co-founded the Phoenix Art Institute, where he taught for over twenty years. [Source: Wikipedia]
At the end of this article, I'll also include some restored scans from the new edition, which are much larger and crisper, so you can see more of the details. On images that contain small format text, I'll reprint the text as a caption, so you can follow along. (Of course, reading is optional, since the floral designs are the main attraction, but I'll let you decide.)
By the way, the main title page of this book will also be available as an art print when we launch. You can watch the restoration video here.
The world is full of roses,
And the roses
full of dew,
And the dew is full
of heavenly love
That drips for me and you
And the roses
full of dew,
And the dew is full
of heavenly love
That drips for me and you
A Discouraging Model
Just the airiest,
fairiest slip of a thing
With a Gainsborough hat,
like a butterfly's wing.
Tilted up at one side
with the jauntiest air,
And a knot of red roses
sown in under there
Where the shadows are
lost in her hair.
Just the airiest,
fairiest slip of a thing
With a Gainsborough hat,
like a butterfly's wing.
Tilted up at one side
with the jauntiest air,
And a knot of red roses
sown in under there
Where the shadows are
lost in her hair.
With a Gainsborough hat...
Tilted up on one side with
the jauntiest air
Tilted up on one side with
the jauntiest air
A Discouraging Model
Then a cameo face,
carven in on a ground
Of that shadowy hair where
the roses are wound;
And the gleam of a smile
O as fair and as faint
And as sweet as the
masters of old used to paint
Round the lips of
their favorite saint!
Then a cameo face,
carven in on a ground
Of that shadowy hair where
the roses are wound;
And the gleam of a smile
O as fair and as faint
And as sweet as the
masters of old used to paint
Round the lips of
their favorite saint!
A Discouraging Model
And that lace at
her throat – and the
fluttering hands
Snowing there,
with a grace that
no art understands
And that lace at
her throat – and the
fluttering hands
Snowing there,
with a grace that
no art understands
A Discouraging Model
The flakes of their
touches – first
fluttering at
The bow – then
the roses – the hair
- and then that
Little tilt of the
Gainsborough hat.
The flakes of their
touches – first
fluttering at
The bow – then
the roses – the hair
- and then that
Little tilt of the
Gainsborough hat.
A Discouraging Model
O what artist on earth,
with a model like this,
Holding not on his palette
the tint of a kiss
Nor the pigment to hint
of the hue of her hair,
Nor the gold of her smile -
O what artist could dare
To expect a result
Half so fair?
O what artist on earth,
with a model like this,
Holding not on his palette
the tint of a kiss
Nor the pigment to hint
of the hue of her hair,
Nor the gold of her smile -
O what artist could dare
To expect a result
Half so fair?
O what artist could dare
To expect a result half so fair
To expect a result half so fair
Old-fashioned Roses
They ain't no style about 'em
And they're sorto' pale and faded,
Yit the doorway here without 'em,
Would be lonesomer and shaded
With a good 'eal blacker shadder
Than the morning glory makes
And the sunshine would look sadder
fer their good old-fashion' sakes.
I like 'em cause they kindo' -
Sorto' make a feller like 'em!
They ain't no style about 'em
And they're sorto' pale and faded,
Yit the doorway here without 'em,
Would be lonesomer and shaded
With a good 'eal blacker shadder
Than the morning glory makes
And the sunshine would look sadder
fer their good old-fashion' sakes.
I like 'em cause they kindo' -
Sorto' make a feller like 'em!
It allus sets me thinkin'
O' the ones that used to grow
And peek in through the chinkin'
O' the cabin, don't you know
O' the ones that used to grow
And peek in through the chinkin'
O' the cabin, don't you know
Old-fashioned Roses
And I tell you, when I find a
Bunch out whur the sun kin
strike 'em,
It allus sets me thinkin'
O' the ones that used to grow
And peek in through the chinkin'
O' the cabin, don't you know!
And then I think o' mother,
And how she ust to love 'em -
When they wuzn't any other,
'Less she found 'em up above 'em!
And I tell you, when I find a
Bunch out whur the sun kin
strike 'em,
It allus sets me thinkin'
O' the ones that used to grow
And peek in through the chinkin'
O' the cabin, don't you know!
And then I think o' mother,
And how she ust to love 'em -
When they wuzn't any other,
'Less she found 'em up above 'em!
I'm happier in these posies
And the hollyhawks and sich
Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses
In the roses of the rich
And the hollyhawks and sich
Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses
In the roses of the rich
Old-fashioned Roses
And her eyes, afore she shut 'em,
Whispered with a smile and said
We must pick a bunch and putt 'em
In her hand when she wuz dead.
But, as I wuz a-sayin',
They ain't no style about 'em
Very gaudy 'er displayin',
But I wouldn't be without 'em, -
'Cause I'm happier in these posies,
And the hollyhawks and sich,
Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses
In the roses of the rich.
And her eyes, afore she shut 'em,
Whispered with a smile and said
We must pick a bunch and putt 'em
In her hand when she wuz dead.
But, as I wuz a-sayin',
They ain't no style about 'em
Very gaudy 'er displayin',
But I wouldn't be without 'em, -
'Cause I'm happier in these posies,
And the hollyhawks and sich,
Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses
In the roses of the rich.
The Rose
It tossed it's head at
the wooing breeze;
And the sun, like
a bashful swain,
Beamed on it through
the waving trees
With a passion -
all in vain, -
For my rose laughed
in a crimson glee,
And hid in the leaves
in wait for me.
It tossed it's head at
the wooing breeze;
And the sun, like
a bashful swain,
Beamed on it through
the waving trees
With a passion -
all in vain, -
For my rose laughed
in a crimson glee,
And hid in the leaves
in wait for me.
The Rose
The honey-bee came
there to sing
His love through
the languid hours,
And vaunt of his hives,
as a proud old king
Might boast of
his palace towers:
But my rose bowed
in a mockery,
And hid in the leaves
in wait for me
The honey-bee came
there to sing
His love through
the languid hours,
And vaunt of his hives,
as a proud old king
Might boast of
his palace towers:
But my rose bowed
in a mockery,
And hid in the leaves
in wait for me
The Rose
The humming-bird,
like a courtier gay,
Dipped down with
A dalliant song
And twanged his wings
through the roundelay
Of love the
whole day long:
Yet my rose turned
from his minstrelsy
And hid in the leaves
in wait for me.
The humming-bird,
like a courtier gay,
Dipped down with
A dalliant song
And twanged his wings
through the roundelay
Of love the
whole day long:
Yet my rose turned
from his minstrelsy
And hid in the leaves
in wait for me.
The bloom of a fadeless
constancy
That hides in the leaves
in wait for me
constancy
That hides in the leaves
in wait for me
The Rose
The firefly came in
the twilight dim
My red, red
rose to woo -
Till quenched was the
flame of love in him
And the light of
his lantern, too,
As my rose wept
with dewdrops three
And hid in the leaves
in wait for me.
The firefly came in
the twilight dim
My red, red
rose to woo -
Till quenched was the
flame of love in him
And the light of
his lantern, too,
As my rose wept
with dewdrops three
And hid in the leaves
in wait for me.
The Rose
And I said: I will cull
my own sweet rose -
Some day I will
claim as mine
The priceless worth of
the flower that knows
No change, but
a bloom divine -
The bloom of a
fadeless constancy
That hides in the leaves
in wait for me!
And I said: I will cull
my own sweet rose -
Some day I will
claim as mine
The priceless worth of
the flower that knows
No change, but
a bloom divine -
The bloom of a
fadeless constancy
That hides in the leaves
in wait for me!
I dream today o'er a purple stain
Of bloom on a withered stalk
Pelted down by the autumn rain
In the dust of the garden walk
Of bloom on a withered stalk
Pelted down by the autumn rain
In the dust of the garden walk
The Rose
But time passed by
in a strange disguise,
And I marked it
not, but lay
In a lazy dream,
with drowsy eyes,
Till the summer
slipped away,
And a chill wind sang
in a minor key:
“Where is the rose
that waits for thee?”
But time passed by
in a strange disguise,
And I marked it
not, but lay
In a lazy dream,
with drowsy eyes,
Till the summer
slipped away,
And a chill wind sang
in a minor key:
“Where is the rose
that waits for thee?”
The Rose
I dream today, o'er
a purple stain
Of bloom on
a withered stalk,
Pelted down by
the autumn rain
In the dust of
the garden walk,
That an angel-rose in
the world to be
Will hide in the leaves
in wait for me.
I dream today, o'er
a purple stain
Of bloom on
a withered stalk,
Pelted down by
the autumn rain
In the dust of
the garden walk,
That an angel-rose in
the world to be
Will hide in the leaves
in wait for me.
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