EUGENE FIELD.

One of the most clever of Western humorists is Eugene Field. He is a native of Missouri, having been born in St. Louis, September 2, 1850. His mother died when he was but six years of age, and he was sent, with a younger brother, to Amherst, Massachusetts, and placed under the care of his cousin, Miss French. He was fitted for college by the Rev. James Tufts, of Monson, and entered Williams college in 1868. Upon the death of his father, in 1869, he returned to the West, and has since then made his home on the western side of the Mississippi. He left the State University of Missouri at the close of his junior year, and went to Europe, where he remained for seven months.

In 1873 Mr. Field became a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal, of which paper Stanley Huntley (now of the Brooklyn Eagle) was then city editor. He changed his location soon after to St. Joseph, where for eighteen months he was associate editor of the St. Joseph Gazette.He then moved to Kansas City, where, for a period of twenty months, he acted as managing editor of the Daily Times. He was with the St. Louis Times-Journal during its best days, and was twice elected poet of the Missouri Press Association. He is, at the present writing, managing editor of the Denver Tribune. He has been married eight years and is the father of four living children.

It was in 1878 that Mr. Field first began writing verse, and, for a young poet, his productions were highly complimented. His first effort was a little poem of ten stanzas, which was printed in a St. Louis paper. It was entitled:

THE CHRISTMAS TREASURES.

I count my treasures o’er with care—A little toy that baby knew—A little lock of faded hue—A little lock of golden hair.Long years ago this Christmas time,My little one—my all to me—Sat, robed in white, upon my knee,And heard the Merry Christmas chime.“Tell me, my little golden-head,If Santa Claus should come to-night,What shall he bring my baby bright—What treasure for my boy?” I said.And then he named the little toy,While in his round and truthful eyesThere came a look of glad surpriseThat spoke his trustful, childish joy.And as he lisped his evening pray’r,He asked the boon with baby grace,And toddling to the chimney place,He hung his little stocking there.That night, as length’ning shadows crept,I saw the white-winged angels comeWith music to our humble homeAnd kiss my darling as he slept.They must have heard his baby pray’r,For in the morn, with glowing face,He toddled to the chimney placeAnd found the little treasure there.They came again one Christmas tide—That angel host, so fair and white—And, singing all the Christmas night,They lured my darling from my side.A little sock, a little toy—A little lock of golden hair—The Christmas music on the air—A watching for my baby boy.But if again that angel trainAnd golden-head come back for me,To bear me to eternity,My watching will not be in vain.

I count my treasures o’er with care—A little toy that baby knew—A little lock of faded hue—A little lock of golden hair.

I count my treasures o’er with care—

A little toy that baby knew—

A little lock of faded hue—

A little lock of golden hair.

Long years ago this Christmas time,My little one—my all to me—Sat, robed in white, upon my knee,And heard the Merry Christmas chime.

Long years ago this Christmas time,

My little one—my all to me—

Sat, robed in white, upon my knee,

And heard the Merry Christmas chime.

“Tell me, my little golden-head,If Santa Claus should come to-night,What shall he bring my baby bright—What treasure for my boy?” I said.

“Tell me, my little golden-head,

If Santa Claus should come to-night,

What shall he bring my baby bright—

What treasure for my boy?” I said.

And then he named the little toy,While in his round and truthful eyesThere came a look of glad surpriseThat spoke his trustful, childish joy.

And then he named the little toy,

While in his round and truthful eyes

There came a look of glad surprise

That spoke his trustful, childish joy.

And as he lisped his evening pray’r,He asked the boon with baby grace,And toddling to the chimney place,He hung his little stocking there.

And as he lisped his evening pray’r,

He asked the boon with baby grace,

And toddling to the chimney place,

He hung his little stocking there.

That night, as length’ning shadows crept,I saw the white-winged angels comeWith music to our humble homeAnd kiss my darling as he slept.

That night, as length’ning shadows crept,

I saw the white-winged angels come

With music to our humble home

And kiss my darling as he slept.

They must have heard his baby pray’r,For in the morn, with glowing face,He toddled to the chimney placeAnd found the little treasure there.

They must have heard his baby pray’r,

For in the morn, with glowing face,

He toddled to the chimney place

And found the little treasure there.

They came again one Christmas tide—That angel host, so fair and white—And, singing all the Christmas night,They lured my darling from my side.

They came again one Christmas tide—

That angel host, so fair and white—

And, singing all the Christmas night,

They lured my darling from my side.

A little sock, a little toy—A little lock of golden hair—The Christmas music on the air—A watching for my baby boy.

A little sock, a little toy—

A little lock of golden hair—

The Christmas music on the air—

A watching for my baby boy.

But if again that angel trainAnd golden-head come back for me,To bear me to eternity,My watching will not be in vain.

But if again that angel train

And golden-head come back for me,

To bear me to eternity,

My watching will not be in vain.

Other efforts in a similar vein followed, of which the following is a fair sample:

THE PRAYER.

Long years have passed since that sweet timeWhen first I breathed upon the airMy simple little baby prayer—A prayer with earnestness sublime;Since first my mother clasped my hands,And bade me, ere I went to sleep,Pray God my little soul to keep,Or take to dwell in heav’nly land.And now, tho’ years on years have fled,And tho’ the mother’s passed away,And tho’ my head be bowed and gray,The little prayer that then I saidComes floating back on angel wing,As if, upon the other shore,A little child had lisped it o’erFor God’s own messengers to bring.

Long years have passed since that sweet time

When first I breathed upon the air

My simple little baby prayer—

A prayer with earnestness sublime;

Since first my mother clasped my hands,

And bade me, ere I went to sleep,

Pray God my little soul to keep,

Or take to dwell in heav’nly land.

And now, tho’ years on years have fled,And tho’ the mother’s passed away,And tho’ my head be bowed and gray,The little prayer that then I saidComes floating back on angel wing,As if, upon the other shore,A little child had lisped it o’erFor God’s own messengers to bring.

And now, tho’ years on years have fled,

And tho’ the mother’s passed away,

And tho’ my head be bowed and gray,

The little prayer that then I said

Comes floating back on angel wing,

As if, upon the other shore,

A little child had lisped it o’er

For God’s own messengers to bring.

His work in a lighter vein is fairly represented by the following:

THE SAME DEAR HAND.

The bells ring out a happy sound,The earth is mantled o’er with white,It is the merry Christmas night,And love and mirth and joy abound.And here sit you and here sit I;I should be happiest in the land,For, oh, I hold the same dear handI’ve held for many a year gone by!It is not withered up with care;It is as fresh and fair to see,As sweet to hold and dear to me,As when with chimes upon the airOn Christmas nights of years agoI held the same dear little thingAnd felt its soft caresses bringThe flushes to my throbbing brow.Ah, we were born to never part!This little hand I hold to-night,And I, so with a strange delight,I press it to my beating heart,And in the midnight’s solemn hushI bless the little hand I hold.In broken whispers be it told,It is the old-time bobtail flush.

The bells ring out a happy sound,

The earth is mantled o’er with white,

It is the merry Christmas night,

And love and mirth and joy abound.

And here sit you and here sit I;

I should be happiest in the land,

For, oh, I hold the same dear hand

I’ve held for many a year gone by!

It is not withered up with care;It is as fresh and fair to see,As sweet to hold and dear to me,As when with chimes upon the airOn Christmas nights of years agoI held the same dear little thingAnd felt its soft caresses bringThe flushes to my throbbing brow.

It is not withered up with care;

It is as fresh and fair to see,

As sweet to hold and dear to me,

As when with chimes upon the air

On Christmas nights of years ago

I held the same dear little thing

And felt its soft caresses bring

The flushes to my throbbing brow.

Ah, we were born to never part!This little hand I hold to-night,And I, so with a strange delight,I press it to my beating heart,And in the midnight’s solemn hushI bless the little hand I hold.In broken whispers be it told,It is the old-time bobtail flush.

Ah, we were born to never part!

This little hand I hold to-night,

And I, so with a strange delight,

I press it to my beating heart,

And in the midnight’s solemn hush

I bless the little hand I hold.

In broken whispers be it told,

It is the old-time bobtail flush.

Then again in the following:

THE WARRIOR.

Under the window is a manPlaying an organ all the day—Grinding as only a cripple can,In a moody, vague, uncertain way.His coat is blue and upon his faceIs a look of high-born, restless pride—There is somewhat about him of martial graceAnd an empty sleeve hangs at his side.“Tell me, warrior, bold and true,In what carnage, night or day,Came the merciless shot to you,Bearing your good right arm away?”Fire dies out in the patriot’s eye,Changed my warrior’s tone and mien—Choked by emotion, he makes reply—“Kansas—harvest—threshing machine.”

Under the window is a manPlaying an organ all the day—Grinding as only a cripple can,In a moody, vague, uncertain way.

Under the window is a man

Playing an organ all the day—

Grinding as only a cripple can,

In a moody, vague, uncertain way.

His coat is blue and upon his faceIs a look of high-born, restless pride—There is somewhat about him of martial graceAnd an empty sleeve hangs at his side.

His coat is blue and upon his face

Is a look of high-born, restless pride—

There is somewhat about him of martial grace

And an empty sleeve hangs at his side.

“Tell me, warrior, bold and true,In what carnage, night or day,Came the merciless shot to you,Bearing your good right arm away?”

“Tell me, warrior, bold and true,

In what carnage, night or day,

Came the merciless shot to you,

Bearing your good right arm away?”

Fire dies out in the patriot’s eye,Changed my warrior’s tone and mien—Choked by emotion, he makes reply—“Kansas—harvest—threshing machine.”

Fire dies out in the patriot’s eye,

Changed my warrior’s tone and mien—

Choked by emotion, he makes reply—

“Kansas—harvest—threshing machine.”

In October, 1881, Mr. Field commenced the publication of the Denver Tribune Primer, which he abandoned as soon as it began to be generally imitated. Samples of his primer style are appended:

MENTAL ARITHMETIC.How many Birds are there in Seven soft-boiled Eggs?If you have Five Cucumbers and eat Three, what will you have Left? Two? No, you are Wrong. You will have More than that. You will have Colic enough to Double you up in a BowKnot for Six Hours. You may go to the Foot of the Class.A Man had Six Sons and Four Daughters. If he had had Six Daughters and Four Sons, how many more Sons than Daughters would He have had?If a Horse weighing 1600 pounds can Haul four tons of Pig Iron, how many Seasons will a Front Gate painted Blue carry a young Woman on One Side and a young Man on the Other?THE WASP.See the wasp. He has pretty yellow stripes around his Body, and a Darning Needle in his Tail. If You Will Pat the Wasp upon the Tail, we will Give You a Nice Picture Book.THE EDITOR’S HOME.Here is a Castle. It is the Home of an Editor. It has Stained Glass windows and Mahogany stairways. In front of the Castle is a Park. Is it not Sweet? The lady in the Park is the editor’s wife. She wears a Costly robe of Velvet trimmed with Gold Lace, and there are Pearls and Rubies in her Hair. The editor sits on the front Stoop smoking an Havana Cigar. His little Children are Playing with diamond Marbles on the Tesselated Floor. The editor can afford to Live in Style. He gets Seventy-Five Dollars a month Wages.THE SWEET HOME.Mamma is Larruping Papa with the Mop Handle. The children are Fighting over a Piece of Pie in the Kitchen. Over the Piano there is a Beautiful Motto in a gilt Frame. The Beautiful Motto says there is no Place like Home.THE CATERPILLAR.The Caterpillar is Crawling along the Fence. He has Pretty Fur all over his Back, and he Walks by Wrinkling up his Skin. He is Full of Nice yellow Custard. Perhaps you had better take him Into the house, where it is Warm, and Mash him on the Wall Paper with Sister Lulu’s Album. Then the Wall Paper will Look as if a Red Headed Girl had been leaning Against it.THE DIAMOND PIN.Here is a Diamond Pin. The Editor won it at a Church Fair. There were Ten Chances at Ten Cents a Chance. The Editor Mortgaged his Paper and Took one Chance. The Pin is Worth seven hundred Dollars. Editors like Diamonds. Sometimes they Wear them in their Shirts, but Generally in their Mind.

MENTAL ARITHMETIC.

How many Birds are there in Seven soft-boiled Eggs?

If you have Five Cucumbers and eat Three, what will you have Left? Two? No, you are Wrong. You will have More than that. You will have Colic enough to Double you up in a BowKnot for Six Hours. You may go to the Foot of the Class.

A Man had Six Sons and Four Daughters. If he had had Six Daughters and Four Sons, how many more Sons than Daughters would He have had?

If a Horse weighing 1600 pounds can Haul four tons of Pig Iron, how many Seasons will a Front Gate painted Blue carry a young Woman on One Side and a young Man on the Other?

THE WASP.

See the wasp. He has pretty yellow stripes around his Body, and a Darning Needle in his Tail. If You Will Pat the Wasp upon the Tail, we will Give You a Nice Picture Book.

THE EDITOR’S HOME.

Here is a Castle. It is the Home of an Editor. It has Stained Glass windows and Mahogany stairways. In front of the Castle is a Park. Is it not Sweet? The lady in the Park is the editor’s wife. She wears a Costly robe of Velvet trimmed with Gold Lace, and there are Pearls and Rubies in her Hair. The editor sits on the front Stoop smoking an Havana Cigar. His little Children are Playing with diamond Marbles on the Tesselated Floor. The editor can afford to Live in Style. He gets Seventy-Five Dollars a month Wages.

THE SWEET HOME.

Mamma is Larruping Papa with the Mop Handle. The children are Fighting over a Piece of Pie in the Kitchen. Over the Piano there is a Beautiful Motto in a gilt Frame. The Beautiful Motto says there is no Place like Home.

THE CATERPILLAR.

The Caterpillar is Crawling along the Fence. He has Pretty Fur all over his Back, and he Walks by Wrinkling up his Skin. He is Full of Nice yellow Custard. Perhaps you had better take him Into the house, where it is Warm, and Mash him on the Wall Paper with Sister Lulu’s Album. Then the Wall Paper will Look as if a Red Headed Girl had been leaning Against it.

THE DIAMOND PIN.

Here is a Diamond Pin. The Editor won it at a Church Fair. There were Ten Chances at Ten Cents a Chance. The Editor Mortgaged his Paper and Took one Chance. The Pin is Worth seven hundred Dollars. Editors like Diamonds. Sometimes they Wear them in their Shirts, but Generally in their Mind.

Eugene Field has written a number of stories, all of a sombre nature. He has at various times been solicited to contribute to Eastern publications, but has steadily declined to do so.

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