FRANCIS BRET HARTE.

(‡ decoration)FRANCIS BRET HARTE.THE POET OF THE MINING CAMP AND THE WESTERN MOUNTAINS.THE turbulent mining camps of California, with their vicious hangers-on, have been embalmed for future generations by the unerring genius of Bret Harte, who sought to reveal the remnants of honor in man, and loveliness in woman, despite the sins and vices of the mining towns of our Western frontier thirty or forty years ago. His writings have been regarded with disfavor by a religious class of readers because of the frequent occurrence of rough phrases and even profanity which he employs in his descriptions. It should be remembered, however, that a faithful portrait of the conditions and people which he described could hardly have been presented in more polite language than that employed.Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York, in 1839. His father was a scholar of ripe culture, and a teacher in the Albany Female Seminary. He died poor when Bret was quite young, consequently the education of his son was confined to the common schools of the city. When only seventeen years of age, young Harte, with his widowed mother, emigrated to California. Arriving in San Francisco he walked to the mines of Sonora and there opened a school which he taught for a short time. Thus began his self-education in the mining life which furnished the material for his early literature. After leaving his school he became a miner, and at odd times learned to set type in the office of one of the frontier papers. He wrote sketches of the strange life around him, set them up in type himself, and offered the proofs to the editor, believing that in this shape they would be more certain of acceptance. His aptitude with his pen secured him a position on the paper, and in the absence of the editor he once controlled the journal and incurred popular wrath for censuring a little massacre of Indians by the leading citizens of the locality, which came near bringing a mob upon him.The young adventurer,—for he was little else at this time,—also served as mounted messenger of an express company and as express agent in several mountain towns, which gave him a full knowledge of the picturesque features of mining life. In 1857 he returned to San Francisco and secured a position as compositor on a weekly literary journal. Here again he repeated his former trick of setting up and submitting several spirited sketches of mining life in type. These were accepted and soon earned him an editorial position on the “Golden Era.” After this he made many contributions to the daily papers and his tales of Western life began to attract attention in the East. In 1858, he married, which put an end to his wanderings.He attempted to publish a newspaper of his own, “The Californian,” which was bright and worthy to live, but failed for want of proper business management.In 1864Mr.Harte was appointed Secretary of the United States Branch Mint at San Francisco, and during his six years of service in this position found leisure to write some of his popular poems, such as “John Burns, of Gettysburg,” “How Are You, Sanitary?” and others, which were generally printed in the daily newspapers. He also became editor of the “Overland Monthly” when it was founded in 1868, and soon made this magazine as great a favorite on the Atlantic as on the Pacific Coast, by his contribution to its columns of a series of sketches of California life which have won a permanent place in literature. Among these sketches are “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” telling how a baby came to rule the hearts of a rough, dissolute gang of miners. It is said that this masterpiece, however, narrowly escaped the waste-basket at the hands of the proofreader, a woman, who, without noticing its origin, regarded it as utter trash. “The Outcast of Poker Flat,” “Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” “An Idyl of Red Gulch,” and many other stories which revealed the spark of humanity remaining in brutalized men and women, followed in rapid succession.Bret Harte was a man of the most humane nature, and sympathized deeply with the Indian and the Chinaman in the rough treatment they received at the hands of the early settlers, and his literature, no doubt, did much to soften and mollify the actions of those who read them—and it may be safely said that almost every one did, as he was about the only author at that time on the Pacific Slope and very popular. His poem, “The Heathen Chinee,” generally called “Plain Language from Truthful James,” was a masterly satire against the hue and cry that the Chinese were shiftless and weak-minded settlers. This poem appeared in 1870 and was wonderfully popular.In the spring of 1871 the professorship of recent literature in the University of California was offered toMr.Harte, on his resignation of the editorship of the “Overland Monthly,” but he declined the proffer to try his literary fortunes in the more cultured East. He endeavored to found a magazine in Chicago, but his efforts failed, and he went to Boston to accept a position on the “Atlantic Monthly,” since which time his pen has been constantly employed by an increasing demand from various magazines and literary journals.Mr.Harte has issued many volumes of prose and poetry, and it is difficult to say in which field he has won greater distinction. Both as a prose writer and as a poet he has treated similar subjects with equal facility. His reputation was made, and his claim to fame rests upon his intuitive insight into the heart of our common humanity. A number of his sketches have been translated into French and German, and of late years he has lived much abroad, where he is, if any difference, more lionized than he was in his native country.From 1878 to 1885Mr.Harte was United States Consul successively to Crefield and Glasgow. Ferdinand Freiligraph, one of his German translators, and himself a poet, pays this tribute to his peculiar excellence:“Nevertheless he remains what he is—the Californian and the gold-digger. But the gold for which he has dug, and which he found, is not the gold in the bed of rivers—not the gold in veins of mountains; it is the gold of love, of goodness, offidelity, of humanity, which even in rude and wild hearts—even under the rubbish of vices and sins—remains forever uneradicated from the human heart. That he there searched for this gold, that he found it there and triumphantly exhibited it to the world—that is his greatness and his merit.”His works as published from 1867 to 1890 include “Condensed Novels,” “Poems,” “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches,” “East and West Poems,” “Poetical Works,” “Mrs.Skaggs’ Husbands,” “Echoes of the Foothills,” “Tales of the Argonauts,” “Gabriel Conroy,” “Two Men of Sandy Bar,” “Thankful Blossom,” “Story of a Mine,” “Drift from Two Shores,” “The Twins of Table Mountain and Other Stories,” “In the Carquinez Woods,” “On the Frontier,” “By Shore and Ledge,” “Snowbound at Eagles,” “The Crusade of the Excelsior,” “A Phyllis of the Sierras.” One ofMr.Harte’s most popular late novels, entitled “Three Partners; or, The Big Strike on Heavy Tree Hill,” was published as a serial in 1897. Though written while the author was in Europe, the vividness of the description and the accurate delineations of the miner character are as strikingly real as if it had been produced by the author while residing in the mining country of his former Western home.SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS.Ireside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the rowThat broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.But first, I would remark, that it is not a proper planFor any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim,To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to seeThan the first six months’ proceedings of that same Society,Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bonesThat he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.Then Brown, he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, an’ said he was at fault,It seems he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault;He was a most sarcastic man, this quietMr.Brown,And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gentTo say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent;Nor should the individual who happens to be meantReply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.Then Abner Dean, of Angel’s, raised a point of order, whenA chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen;And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more;For, in less time than I write it, every member did engageIn a warfare with the remnants of the palæozoic age;And the way they heaved those fossils, in their anger, was a sin,’Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.And this is all I have to say of these improper games,For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;And I’ve told in simple language what I knew about the rowThat broke up our society upon the Stanislow.DICKENS IN CAMP.ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,The river sang below;The dim Sierras, far beyond, upliftingTheir minarets of snow.The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, paintedThe ruddy tints of healthOn haggard face and form, that drooped and faintedIn the fierce race for wealth’Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasureA hoarded volume drew,And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisureTo hear the tale anew.And then, while shadows ’round them gathered faster,And as the firelight fell,He read aloud the book wherein the MasterHad writ of “Little Nell.”Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the readerWas the youngest of them all,—But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedarA silence seemed to fall.The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,Listened in every spray,While the whole camp with “Nell” on English meadowsWandered and lost their way.And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertakenAs by some spell divine,Their cares drop from them like the needles shakenFrom out the gusty pine.Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire,And he who wrought that spell;Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,Ye have one tale to tell!Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant storyBlend with the breath that thrillsWith hop-vines’ incense, all the pensive gloryThat thrills the Kentish hills;And on that grave, where English oak and holly,And laurel-wreaths entwine,Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,This spray of Western pine!(‡ decoration)

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THE POET OF THE MINING CAMP AND THE WESTERN MOUNTAINS.

THE turbulent mining camps of California, with their vicious hangers-on, have been embalmed for future generations by the unerring genius of Bret Harte, who sought to reveal the remnants of honor in man, and loveliness in woman, despite the sins and vices of the mining towns of our Western frontier thirty or forty years ago. His writings have been regarded with disfavor by a religious class of readers because of the frequent occurrence of rough phrases and even profanity which he employs in his descriptions. It should be remembered, however, that a faithful portrait of the conditions and people which he described could hardly have been presented in more polite language than that employed.

Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York, in 1839. His father was a scholar of ripe culture, and a teacher in the Albany Female Seminary. He died poor when Bret was quite young, consequently the education of his son was confined to the common schools of the city. When only seventeen years of age, young Harte, with his widowed mother, emigrated to California. Arriving in San Francisco he walked to the mines of Sonora and there opened a school which he taught for a short time. Thus began his self-education in the mining life which furnished the material for his early literature. After leaving his school he became a miner, and at odd times learned to set type in the office of one of the frontier papers. He wrote sketches of the strange life around him, set them up in type himself, and offered the proofs to the editor, believing that in this shape they would be more certain of acceptance. His aptitude with his pen secured him a position on the paper, and in the absence of the editor he once controlled the journal and incurred popular wrath for censuring a little massacre of Indians by the leading citizens of the locality, which came near bringing a mob upon him.

The young adventurer,—for he was little else at this time,—also served as mounted messenger of an express company and as express agent in several mountain towns, which gave him a full knowledge of the picturesque features of mining life. In 1857 he returned to San Francisco and secured a position as compositor on a weekly literary journal. Here again he repeated his former trick of setting up and submitting several spirited sketches of mining life in type. These were accepted and soon earned him an editorial position on the “Golden Era.” After this he made many contributions to the daily papers and his tales of Western life began to attract attention in the East. In 1858, he married, which put an end to his wanderings.He attempted to publish a newspaper of his own, “The Californian,” which was bright and worthy to live, but failed for want of proper business management.

In 1864Mr.Harte was appointed Secretary of the United States Branch Mint at San Francisco, and during his six years of service in this position found leisure to write some of his popular poems, such as “John Burns, of Gettysburg,” “How Are You, Sanitary?” and others, which were generally printed in the daily newspapers. He also became editor of the “Overland Monthly” when it was founded in 1868, and soon made this magazine as great a favorite on the Atlantic as on the Pacific Coast, by his contribution to its columns of a series of sketches of California life which have won a permanent place in literature. Among these sketches are “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” telling how a baby came to rule the hearts of a rough, dissolute gang of miners. It is said that this masterpiece, however, narrowly escaped the waste-basket at the hands of the proofreader, a woman, who, without noticing its origin, regarded it as utter trash. “The Outcast of Poker Flat,” “Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” “An Idyl of Red Gulch,” and many other stories which revealed the spark of humanity remaining in brutalized men and women, followed in rapid succession.

Bret Harte was a man of the most humane nature, and sympathized deeply with the Indian and the Chinaman in the rough treatment they received at the hands of the early settlers, and his literature, no doubt, did much to soften and mollify the actions of those who read them—and it may be safely said that almost every one did, as he was about the only author at that time on the Pacific Slope and very popular. His poem, “The Heathen Chinee,” generally called “Plain Language from Truthful James,” was a masterly satire against the hue and cry that the Chinese were shiftless and weak-minded settlers. This poem appeared in 1870 and was wonderfully popular.

In the spring of 1871 the professorship of recent literature in the University of California was offered toMr.Harte, on his resignation of the editorship of the “Overland Monthly,” but he declined the proffer to try his literary fortunes in the more cultured East. He endeavored to found a magazine in Chicago, but his efforts failed, and he went to Boston to accept a position on the “Atlantic Monthly,” since which time his pen has been constantly employed by an increasing demand from various magazines and literary journals.Mr.Harte has issued many volumes of prose and poetry, and it is difficult to say in which field he has won greater distinction. Both as a prose writer and as a poet he has treated similar subjects with equal facility. His reputation was made, and his claim to fame rests upon his intuitive insight into the heart of our common humanity. A number of his sketches have been translated into French and German, and of late years he has lived much abroad, where he is, if any difference, more lionized than he was in his native country.

From 1878 to 1885Mr.Harte was United States Consul successively to Crefield and Glasgow. Ferdinand Freiligraph, one of his German translators, and himself a poet, pays this tribute to his peculiar excellence:

“Nevertheless he remains what he is—the Californian and the gold-digger. But the gold for which he has dug, and which he found, is not the gold in the bed of rivers—not the gold in veins of mountains; it is the gold of love, of goodness, offidelity, of humanity, which even in rude and wild hearts—even under the rubbish of vices and sins—remains forever uneradicated from the human heart. That he there searched for this gold, that he found it there and triumphantly exhibited it to the world—that is his greatness and his merit.”

His works as published from 1867 to 1890 include “Condensed Novels,” “Poems,” “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches,” “East and West Poems,” “Poetical Works,” “Mrs.Skaggs’ Husbands,” “Echoes of the Foothills,” “Tales of the Argonauts,” “Gabriel Conroy,” “Two Men of Sandy Bar,” “Thankful Blossom,” “Story of a Mine,” “Drift from Two Shores,” “The Twins of Table Mountain and Other Stories,” “In the Carquinez Woods,” “On the Frontier,” “By Shore and Ledge,” “Snowbound at Eagles,” “The Crusade of the Excelsior,” “A Phyllis of the Sierras.” One ofMr.Harte’s most popular late novels, entitled “Three Partners; or, The Big Strike on Heavy Tree Hill,” was published as a serial in 1897. Though written while the author was in Europe, the vividness of the description and the accurate delineations of the miner character are as strikingly real as if it had been produced by the author while residing in the mining country of his former Western home.

SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS.

Ireside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the rowThat broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.But first, I would remark, that it is not a proper planFor any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim,To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to seeThan the first six months’ proceedings of that same Society,Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bonesThat he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.Then Brown, he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, an’ said he was at fault,It seems he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault;He was a most sarcastic man, this quietMr.Brown,And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gentTo say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent;Nor should the individual who happens to be meantReply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.Then Abner Dean, of Angel’s, raised a point of order, whenA chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen;And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more;For, in less time than I write it, every member did engageIn a warfare with the remnants of the palæozoic age;And the way they heaved those fossils, in their anger, was a sin,’Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.And this is all I have to say of these improper games,For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;And I’ve told in simple language what I knew about the rowThat broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;

I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games;

And I’ll tell in simple language what I know about the row

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow.

But first, I would remark, that it is not a proper plan

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man,

And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim,

To lay for that same member for to “put a head” on him.

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see

Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same Society,

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones

That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown, he read a paper, and he reconstructed there,

From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare;

And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules,

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, an’ said he was at fault,

It seems he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault;

He was a most sarcastic man, this quietMr.Brown,

And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent

To say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent;

Nor should the individual who happens to be meant

Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean, of Angel’s, raised a point of order, when

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen;

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor,

And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more;

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage

In a warfare with the remnants of the palæozoic age;

And the way they heaved those fossils, in their anger, was a sin,

’Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games,

For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James;

And I’ve told in simple language what I knew about the row

That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

DICKENS IN CAMP.

ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,The river sang below;The dim Sierras, far beyond, upliftingTheir minarets of snow.The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, paintedThe ruddy tints of healthOn haggard face and form, that drooped and faintedIn the fierce race for wealth’Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasureA hoarded volume drew,And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisureTo hear the tale anew.And then, while shadows ’round them gathered faster,And as the firelight fell,He read aloud the book wherein the MasterHad writ of “Little Nell.”Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the readerWas the youngest of them all,—But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedarA silence seemed to fall.The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,Listened in every spray,While the whole camp with “Nell” on English meadowsWandered and lost their way.And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertakenAs by some spell divine,Their cares drop from them like the needles shakenFrom out the gusty pine.Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire,And he who wrought that spell;Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,Ye have one tale to tell!Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant storyBlend with the breath that thrillsWith hop-vines’ incense, all the pensive gloryThat thrills the Kentish hills;And on that grave, where English oak and holly,And laurel-wreaths entwine,Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,This spray of Western pine!(‡ decoration)

BOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting,

The river sang below;

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting

Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted

The ruddy tints of health

On haggard face and form, that drooped and fainted

In the fierce race for wealth

’Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure

A hoarded volume drew,

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure

To hear the tale anew.

And then, while shadows ’round them gathered faster,

And as the firelight fell,

He read aloud the book wherein the Master

Had writ of “Little Nell.”

Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader

Was the youngest of them all,—

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar

A silence seemed to fall.

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,

Listened in every spray,

While the whole camp with “Nell” on English meadows

Wandered and lost their way.

And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertaken

As by some spell divine,

Their cares drop from them like the needles shaken

From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire,

And he who wrought that spell;

Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,

Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story

Blend with the breath that thrills

With hop-vines’ incense, all the pensive glory

That thrills the Kentish hills;

And on that grave, where English oak and holly,

And laurel-wreaths entwine,

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,

This spray of Western pine!

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(‡ decoration)EUGENE FIELD.THE CHILDREN’S FRIEND AND POET.ON the fourth day of November, 1895, there was many a sad home in the city of Chicago and throughout America. It was on that day that Eugene Field, the most congenial friend young children ever had among the literary men of America, died at the early age of forty-five. The expressions of regard and regret called out on all sides by this untimely death, made it clear that the character in which the public at large knew and lovedMr.Field best was that of the “Poet of Child Life.” What gives his poems their unequaled hold on the popular heart is their simplicity, warmth and genuineness. This quality they owe to the fact thatMr.Field almost lived in the closest and fondest intimacy with children. He had troops of them for his friends and it is said he wrote his child-poems directly under their suggestions and inspiration.We might fill far more space than is at our command in this volume relating incidents which go to show his fondness for little ones. It is said that on the day of his marriage, he delayed the ceremony to settle a quarrel between some urchins who were playing marbles in the street. So long did he remain to argue the question with them that all might be satisfied, the time for the wedding actually passed and when sent for, he was found squatted down among them acting as peace-maker. It is also said that on one occasion he was invited by the noted divine,Dr.Gunsaulus, to visit his home. The children of the family had been reading Field’s poems and looked forward with eagerness to his coming. When he arrived, the first question he asked the children, after being introduced to them, was, “Where is the kitchen?” and expressed his desire to see it. Child-like, and to the embarrassment of the mother, they led him straight to the cookery where he seized upon the remains of a turkey which had been left from the meal, carried it into the dining-room, seated himself and made a feast with his little friends, telling them quaint stories all the while. After this impromptu supper, he spent the remainder of the evening singing them lullabies and reciting his verses. Naturally before he went away, the children had given him their whole hearts and this was the way with all children with whom he came into contact.The devotion so unfailing in his relation to children would naturally show itself in other relations. His devotion to his wife was most pronounced. In all the world she was the only woman he loved and he never wished to be away from her. Oftenshe accompanied him on his reading tours, the last journey they made together being in the summer of ’95 to the home ofMrs.Field’s girlhood. While his wife was in the company of her old associates, instead of joining them as they expected, he took advantage of her temporary absence, hired a carriage and visited all of the old scenes of their early associations during the happy time of their love-making.His association with his fellow-workers was equally congenial. No man who had ever known him felt the slightest hesitancy in approaching him. He had the happy faculty of making them always feel welcome. It was a common happening in the Chicago newspaper office for some tramp of a fellow, who had known him in the days gone by, to walk boldly in and blurt out, as if confident in the power of the name he spoke—“Is ’Gene Field here? I knew ’Gene Field in Denver, or I worked with ’Gene Field on the ‘Kansas City Times.’” These were sufficient passwords and never failed to call forth the cheery voice from Field’s room—“That’s all right, show him in here, he’s a friend of mine.”One of Field’s peculiarities with his own children was to nickname them. When his first daughter was born he called her “Trotty,” and, although she is a grown-up woman now, her friends still call her “Trotty.” The second daughter is called “Pinny” after the child opera “Pinafore,” which was in vogue at the time she was born. Another, a son, came into the world when everybody was singing “Oh My! Ain’t She a Daisy.” Naturally this fellow still goes by the name of “Daisy.” Two other ofMr.Field’s children are known as “Googhy” and “Posy.”Eugene Field was born inSt.Louis, Missouri, September 2, 1850. Part of his early life was passed in Vermont and Massachusetts. He was educated in a university in Missouri. From 1873 to 1883 he was connected with various newspapers in Missouri and Colorado. He joined the staff of the Chicago “Daily News” in 1883 and removed to Chicago, where he continued to reside until his death, twelve years later. OfMr.Field’s books, “The Denver Tribune Primer” was issued in 1882; “Culture Garden” (1887); “Little Book of Western Friends” (1889); and “Little Book of Profitable Tales” (1889).Mr.Field was not only a writer of child verses, but wrote some first-class Western dialectic verse, did some translating, was an excellent newspaper correspondent, and a critic of no mean ability; but he was too kind-hearted and liberal to chastise a brother severely who did not come up to the highest literary standard. He was a hard worker, contributing daily, during his later years, from one to three columns to the “Chicago News,” besides writing more or less for the “Syndicate Press” and various periodicals. In addition to this, he was frequently traveling, and lectured or read from his own writings. Since his death, his oldest daughter, Miss Mary French Field (“Trotty”), has visited the leading cities throughout the country, delivering readings from her father’s works. The announcement of her appearance to read selections from the writings of her genial father is always liberally responded to by an appreciative public.OUR TWOOPINIONS.¹US two wuz boys when we fell out—Nigh to the age uv my youngest now;Don’t rec’lect what ’twuz about,Some small diff’rence, I’ll allow,Lived next neighbors twenty years,A-hatin’ each other, me ’nd Jim—He havin’ his opinyin uv me’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!Grew up together, ’nd wouldn’t speak,Courted sisters, and marr’d ’em, too’Tended same meetin’ house oncet a week,A-hatin’ each other, through ’nd through.But when Abe Linkern asked the WestF’r soldiers, we answered—me ’nd Jim—He havin’ his opinyin uv me’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!Down in Tennessee one night,Ther was sound uv firin’ fur away,’Nd the sergeant allowed ther’d be a fightWith the Johnnie Rebs some time next day;’Nd as I was thinkin’ of Lizzie ’nd home,Jim stood afore me, long ’nd slim—He havin’ his opinyin uv me’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!Seemed like we knew there wuz goin’ to beSerious trouble f’r me ’nd him—Us two shuck hands, did Jim ’nd me,But never a word from me or Jim!He went his way, and I went mine,’Nd into the battle’s roar went we—I havin’ my opinyin uv Jim’Nd he havin’ his opinyin uv me!Jim never come back from the war again,But I haint forgot that last, last nightWhen waitin’ f’r orders, us two menMade up and shuck hands, afore the fight;’Nd, after it all, it’s soothin’ to knowThat here I be, ’nd yonder’s Jim—He havin’ his opinyin uv me’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.LULLABY.¹FAIR is the castle up on the hill—Hushaby, sweet my own!The night is fair and the waves are still,And the wind is singing to you and meIn this lowly home beside the sea—Hushaby, sweet my own!On yonder hill is store of wealth—Hushaby, sweet my own!And revellers drink to a little one’s health;But you and I bide night and dayFor the other love that has sailed away—Hushaby, sweet my own!See not, dear eyes, the forms that creepGhostlike, O my own!Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;Oh, see them not and make no cry,’Till the angels of death have passed us by—Hushaby, sweet my own!Ah, little they reck of you and me—Hushaby, sweet my own!In our lonely home beside the sea;They seek the castle up on the hill,And there they will do their ghostly will—Hushaby, O my own!Here by the sea, a mother croons“Hushaby, sweet my own;”In yonder castle a mother swoonsWhile the angels go down to the misty deep,Bearing a little one fast asleep—Hushaby, sweet my own!¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.A DUTCHLULLABY.¹WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe—Sailed on a river of misty lightInto a sea of dew.“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”The old moon asked the three.“We have to come to fish for the herring-fishThat live in this beautiful sea:Nets of silver and gold have we,”Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.The old moon laughed and sung a song,And they rocked in the wooden shoe,And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew;The little stars were the herring-fishThat lived in the beautiful sea;“Now cast your nets wherever you wish,But never afeared are we”—So cried the stars to the fishermen three,Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.All night long their nets they threwFor the fish in the twinkling foam,Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,Bringing the fishermen home.’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemedAs if it could not be;And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea.But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,And Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one’s trundle-bed;So shut your eyes while mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock in the misty sea,Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three—Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.THE NORSELULLABY.¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse”(1889).THE sky is dark and the hills are whiteAs the storm-king speeds from the north to-night,And this is the song the storm-king sings,As over the world his cloak he flings:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep!”He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:“Sleep, little one, sleep!”On yonder mountain-side a vineClings at the foot of a mother pine;The tree bends over the trembling thingAnd only the vine can hear her sing:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep—What shall you fear when I am here?Sleep, little one, sleep.”The king may sing in his bitter flight,The tree may croon to the vine to-night,But the little snowflake at my breastLiketh the song I sing the best:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;Weary thou art, anext my heart,Sleep, little one, sleep.”¹Copyright, Charles Scribner’s Sons.

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THE CHILDREN’S FRIEND AND POET.

ON the fourth day of November, 1895, there was many a sad home in the city of Chicago and throughout America. It was on that day that Eugene Field, the most congenial friend young children ever had among the literary men of America, died at the early age of forty-five. The expressions of regard and regret called out on all sides by this untimely death, made it clear that the character in which the public at large knew and lovedMr.Field best was that of the “Poet of Child Life.” What gives his poems their unequaled hold on the popular heart is their simplicity, warmth and genuineness. This quality they owe to the fact thatMr.Field almost lived in the closest and fondest intimacy with children. He had troops of them for his friends and it is said he wrote his child-poems directly under their suggestions and inspiration.

We might fill far more space than is at our command in this volume relating incidents which go to show his fondness for little ones. It is said that on the day of his marriage, he delayed the ceremony to settle a quarrel between some urchins who were playing marbles in the street. So long did he remain to argue the question with them that all might be satisfied, the time for the wedding actually passed and when sent for, he was found squatted down among them acting as peace-maker. It is also said that on one occasion he was invited by the noted divine,Dr.Gunsaulus, to visit his home. The children of the family had been reading Field’s poems and looked forward with eagerness to his coming. When he arrived, the first question he asked the children, after being introduced to them, was, “Where is the kitchen?” and expressed his desire to see it. Child-like, and to the embarrassment of the mother, they led him straight to the cookery where he seized upon the remains of a turkey which had been left from the meal, carried it into the dining-room, seated himself and made a feast with his little friends, telling them quaint stories all the while. After this impromptu supper, he spent the remainder of the evening singing them lullabies and reciting his verses. Naturally before he went away, the children had given him their whole hearts and this was the way with all children with whom he came into contact.

The devotion so unfailing in his relation to children would naturally show itself in other relations. His devotion to his wife was most pronounced. In all the world she was the only woman he loved and he never wished to be away from her. Oftenshe accompanied him on his reading tours, the last journey they made together being in the summer of ’95 to the home ofMrs.Field’s girlhood. While his wife was in the company of her old associates, instead of joining them as they expected, he took advantage of her temporary absence, hired a carriage and visited all of the old scenes of their early associations during the happy time of their love-making.

His association with his fellow-workers was equally congenial. No man who had ever known him felt the slightest hesitancy in approaching him. He had the happy faculty of making them always feel welcome. It was a common happening in the Chicago newspaper office for some tramp of a fellow, who had known him in the days gone by, to walk boldly in and blurt out, as if confident in the power of the name he spoke—“Is ’Gene Field here? I knew ’Gene Field in Denver, or I worked with ’Gene Field on the ‘Kansas City Times.’” These were sufficient passwords and never failed to call forth the cheery voice from Field’s room—“That’s all right, show him in here, he’s a friend of mine.”

One of Field’s peculiarities with his own children was to nickname them. When his first daughter was born he called her “Trotty,” and, although she is a grown-up woman now, her friends still call her “Trotty.” The second daughter is called “Pinny” after the child opera “Pinafore,” which was in vogue at the time she was born. Another, a son, came into the world when everybody was singing “Oh My! Ain’t She a Daisy.” Naturally this fellow still goes by the name of “Daisy.” Two other ofMr.Field’s children are known as “Googhy” and “Posy.”

Eugene Field was born inSt.Louis, Missouri, September 2, 1850. Part of his early life was passed in Vermont and Massachusetts. He was educated in a university in Missouri. From 1873 to 1883 he was connected with various newspapers in Missouri and Colorado. He joined the staff of the Chicago “Daily News” in 1883 and removed to Chicago, where he continued to reside until his death, twelve years later. OfMr.Field’s books, “The Denver Tribune Primer” was issued in 1882; “Culture Garden” (1887); “Little Book of Western Friends” (1889); and “Little Book of Profitable Tales” (1889).

Mr.Field was not only a writer of child verses, but wrote some first-class Western dialectic verse, did some translating, was an excellent newspaper correspondent, and a critic of no mean ability; but he was too kind-hearted and liberal to chastise a brother severely who did not come up to the highest literary standard. He was a hard worker, contributing daily, during his later years, from one to three columns to the “Chicago News,” besides writing more or less for the “Syndicate Press” and various periodicals. In addition to this, he was frequently traveling, and lectured or read from his own writings. Since his death, his oldest daughter, Miss Mary French Field (“Trotty”), has visited the leading cities throughout the country, delivering readings from her father’s works. The announcement of her appearance to read selections from the writings of her genial father is always liberally responded to by an appreciative public.

OUR TWOOPINIONS.¹

US two wuz boys when we fell out—Nigh to the age uv my youngest now;Don’t rec’lect what ’twuz about,Some small diff’rence, I’ll allow,Lived next neighbors twenty years,A-hatin’ each other, me ’nd Jim—He havin’ his opinyin uv me’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!Grew up together, ’nd wouldn’t speak,Courted sisters, and marr’d ’em, too’Tended same meetin’ house oncet a week,A-hatin’ each other, through ’nd through.But when Abe Linkern asked the WestF’r soldiers, we answered—me ’nd Jim—He havin’ his opinyin uv me’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!Down in Tennessee one night,Ther was sound uv firin’ fur away,’Nd the sergeant allowed ther’d be a fightWith the Johnnie Rebs some time next day;’Nd as I was thinkin’ of Lizzie ’nd home,Jim stood afore me, long ’nd slim—He havin’ his opinyin uv me’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!Seemed like we knew there wuz goin’ to beSerious trouble f’r me ’nd him—Us two shuck hands, did Jim ’nd me,But never a word from me or Jim!He went his way, and I went mine,’Nd into the battle’s roar went we—I havin’ my opinyin uv Jim’Nd he havin’ his opinyin uv me!Jim never come back from the war again,But I haint forgot that last, last nightWhen waitin’ f’r orders, us two menMade up and shuck hands, afore the fight;’Nd, after it all, it’s soothin’ to knowThat here I be, ’nd yonder’s Jim—He havin’ his opinyin uv me’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

S two wuz boys when we fell out—

Nigh to the age uv my youngest now;

Don’t rec’lect what ’twuz about,

Some small diff’rence, I’ll allow,

Lived next neighbors twenty years,

A-hatin’ each other, me ’nd Jim—

He havin’ his opinyin uv me

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!

Grew up together, ’nd wouldn’t speak,

Courted sisters, and marr’d ’em, too

’Tended same meetin’ house oncet a week,

A-hatin’ each other, through ’nd through.

But when Abe Linkern asked the West

F’r soldiers, we answered—me ’nd Jim—

He havin’ his opinyin uv me

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!

Down in Tennessee one night,

Ther was sound uv firin’ fur away,

’Nd the sergeant allowed ther’d be a fight

With the Johnnie Rebs some time next day;

’Nd as I was thinkin’ of Lizzie ’nd home,

Jim stood afore me, long ’nd slim—

He havin’ his opinyin uv me

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!

Seemed like we knew there wuz goin’ to be

Serious trouble f’r me ’nd him—

Us two shuck hands, did Jim ’nd me,

But never a word from me or Jim!

He went his way, and I went mine,

’Nd into the battle’s roar went we—

I havin’ my opinyin uv Jim

’Nd he havin’ his opinyin uv me!

Jim never come back from the war again,

But I haint forgot that last, last night

When waitin’ f’r orders, us two men

Made up and shuck hands, afore the fight;

’Nd, after it all, it’s soothin’ to know

That here I be, ’nd yonder’s Jim—

He havin’ his opinyin uv me

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!

¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

LULLABY.¹

FAIR is the castle up on the hill—Hushaby, sweet my own!The night is fair and the waves are still,And the wind is singing to you and meIn this lowly home beside the sea—Hushaby, sweet my own!On yonder hill is store of wealth—Hushaby, sweet my own!And revellers drink to a little one’s health;But you and I bide night and dayFor the other love that has sailed away—Hushaby, sweet my own!See not, dear eyes, the forms that creepGhostlike, O my own!Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;Oh, see them not and make no cry,’Till the angels of death have passed us by—Hushaby, sweet my own!Ah, little they reck of you and me—Hushaby, sweet my own!In our lonely home beside the sea;They seek the castle up on the hill,And there they will do their ghostly will—Hushaby, O my own!Here by the sea, a mother croons“Hushaby, sweet my own;”In yonder castle a mother swoonsWhile the angels go down to the misty deep,Bearing a little one fast asleep—Hushaby, sweet my own!¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

AIR is the castle up on the hill—

Hushaby, sweet my own!

The night is fair and the waves are still,

And the wind is singing to you and me

In this lowly home beside the sea—

Hushaby, sweet my own!

On yonder hill is store of wealth—

Hushaby, sweet my own!

And revellers drink to a little one’s health;

But you and I bide night and day

For the other love that has sailed away—

Hushaby, sweet my own!

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep

Ghostlike, O my own!

Out of the mists of the murmuring deep;

Oh, see them not and make no cry,

’Till the angels of death have passed us by—

Hushaby, sweet my own!

Ah, little they reck of you and me—

Hushaby, sweet my own!

In our lonely home beside the sea;

They seek the castle up on the hill,

And there they will do their ghostly will—

Hushaby, O my own!

Here by the sea, a mother croons

“Hushaby, sweet my own;”

In yonder castle a mother swoons

While the angels go down to the misty deep,

Bearing a little one fast asleep—

Hushaby, sweet my own!

¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

A DUTCHLULLABY.¹

WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe—Sailed on a river of misty lightInto a sea of dew.“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”The old moon asked the three.“We have to come to fish for the herring-fishThat live in this beautiful sea:Nets of silver and gold have we,”Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.The old moon laughed and sung a song,And they rocked in the wooden shoe,And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew;The little stars were the herring-fishThat lived in the beautiful sea;“Now cast your nets wherever you wish,But never afeared are we”—So cried the stars to the fishermen three,Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.All night long their nets they threwFor the fish in the twinkling foam,Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,Bringing the fishermen home.’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemedAs if it could not be;And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea.But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,And Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one’s trundle-bed;So shut your eyes while mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock in the misty sea,Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three—Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

YNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe—

Sailed on a river of misty light

Into a sea of dew.

“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”

The old moon asked the three.

“We have to come to fish for the herring-fish

That live in this beautiful sea:

Nets of silver and gold have we,”

Said Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sung a song,

And they rocked in the wooden shoe,

And the wind that sped them all night long

Ruffled the waves of dew;

The little stars were the herring-fish

That lived in the beautiful sea;

“Now cast your nets wherever you wish,

But never afeared are we”—

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

For the fish in the twinkling foam,

Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home.

’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be;

And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea.

But I shall name you the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock in the misty sea,

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three—

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

¹From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

THE NORSELULLABY.¹

From “A Little Book of Western Verse”(1889).

THE sky is dark and the hills are whiteAs the storm-king speeds from the north to-night,And this is the song the storm-king sings,As over the world his cloak he flings:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep!”He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:“Sleep, little one, sleep!”On yonder mountain-side a vineClings at the foot of a mother pine;The tree bends over the trembling thingAnd only the vine can hear her sing:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep—What shall you fear when I am here?Sleep, little one, sleep.”The king may sing in his bitter flight,The tree may croon to the vine to-night,But the little snowflake at my breastLiketh the song I sing the best:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;Weary thou art, anext my heart,Sleep, little one, sleep.”¹Copyright, Charles Scribner’s Sons.

HE sky is dark and the hills are white

As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night,

And this is the song the storm-king sings,

As over the world his cloak he flings:

“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep!”

He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:

“Sleep, little one, sleep!”

On yonder mountain-side a vine

Clings at the foot of a mother pine;

The tree bends over the trembling thing

And only the vine can hear her sing:

“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep—

What shall you fear when I am here?

Sleep, little one, sleep.”

The king may sing in his bitter flight,

The tree may croon to the vine to-night,

But the little snowflake at my breast

Liketh the song I sing the best:

“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;

Weary thou art, anext my heart,

Sleep, little one, sleep.”

¹Copyright, Charles Scribner’s Sons.

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