EUGENE FIELD.
THE CHILDREN’S FRIEND AND POET.
N 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 loved Mr. 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 that Mr. 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. Often she accompanied him on his reading tours, the last journey they made together being in the summer of ’95 to the home of Mrs. 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 of Mr. Field’s children are known as “Googhy” and “Posy.”
Eugene Field was born in St. 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. Of Mr. 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 TWO OPINIONS.[¹]
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!
[¹] From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
LULLABY.[¹]
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!
[¹] From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
A DUTCH LULLABY.[¹]
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.
[¹] From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
THE NORSE LULLABY.[¹]
From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889).
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.”
[¹] Copyright, Charles Scribner’s Sons.
