Mr. Stone's calmness, like the whittler's stick, tapered up instead down. He who had, at five o'clock on that never-to-be-forgotten day, come upon us with the insinuating placidity of hunyadi janos—he who had addressed us in the tone of prehistoric centuries—he who bade us be calm, and at the same time gave us the finest tableau of human calmness human eye ever contemplated—he it was whom we found at eleven o'clock that very night, frothing at the mouth, biting chunks out of the hard-wood furniture, and tearing the bowels out of everything that came his way.

This singular madness has raged, unabated, for four years. It was so infectious that his associates caught it—all but three. The men about the Daily News office who clung to the Republican party through thick and thin, who endured, therefore, every scoff, jibe, and taunt which sin could devise, and who, preferring honorable death to the rewards of treachery, proudly cast their votes for the nominees of the grand old party,—these three men are entitled to places in the foremost rank of Christian martyrs. Two of them were Joe Bingham and Morgan Bates. Bingham is dead now; peace to his dust. He never was his old hearty self after the defeat of Blaine; and when, upon the heels of this calamity, he moved to Indianapolis, Ind., he could stand it no longer and yielded up his life. He was a stanch soldier in a holy cause; and there is consolation in the fact that he is now at last enjoying the eternal rewards that are prepared for all true Republicans.

As for Morgan Bates, he got somewhat even with his malicious persecutors by writing and producing plays; but retaliation is never satisfactory to a man of noble impulses, and Bates would not pursue it long. He preferred to go into voluntary exile at Des Moines, Iowa; and in that glorious Republican harvest-field he accomplished a great and good work, which being done, symmetrized and concinnated, he returned to this Gomorrah of Mugwumpery and identified himself with that sterling trade journal, the Hide and Leather Criterion.

Next November the two surviving members of the old guard of three will march, arm in arm, to the polls, and will then and there cast their individual votes for the nominees of the Republican party—it matters not whether they be statesmen or tobacco-signs, so long as they be nominees.

As the blasts do but root a tree more firmly in mother earth, so have the trials to which we Republicans of the Daily News have been subjected for the four years riveted us all the more securely to the faith. We have been forced in the line of professional duty to turn humorous paragraphs upon the alleged insincerity of our beloved political leader, but every paragraph so turned shall eventually come home d.v. (and we hope d.q.) to roost, like an Ossa, upon the Pelion of Infamy, which shall surely mark the grave of Mugwumpery. Every poem which we persecuted defenders of the faith have been bulldozed into weaving for the regalement of our persecutors shall be sung again when the other shore is reached, and when the horse and the rider are thrown into the sea. Never for a moment during the trials of these four years have we doubted (and when we say "we," Bates is included)—never have we doubted that there was a promised land, and that we should get there in due time. What we have needed was a Moses; to be candid, we still need a Moses; and we need him badly. We care naught where he comes from—it matters not whither, from the New York Central or from the Western Reserve or from Dubuque, so long as he be a Moses, and that kind of an improved Moses, too, that will not fall just this side of the line.

O brother Republican, what rewards, what joys, what delights are in store for us twain! Lift up your eyes and see in the East the dawn of the new day. Its warmth and its splendor will soon be over and about us. And, mindful of our martyrdom and contemplating its rewards, with great force comes to us just now the lines of the inspired Watts, wherein he portrays the eventual felicity of such as we:

What bliss will thrill the ransomed souls When they in glory dwell, To see the sinner as he rolls In quenchless flames of hell.

Never did a cheerful sinner extract such entertaining enjoyment for himself and his friends from a fictitious martyrdom as Field did from these political tribulations. That he never lost his waggish or satirical interest in politics is evidenced by the following parody on his own "Jest 'fore Christmas," written in December, 1894, being at the expense of the then mayor of Chicago:

_JEST 'FORE ELECTION

My henchmen say "Your Honor," as on their knees they drop; Some people call me Hopkins, but to most I'm known as Hop! For pretty nigh a year I've run the City Hall machine, Protecting my policemen and the gamblers on the green. Love to boss, an' fool the pious people with my tricks— Hate to take the medicine I got November 6! Most all the time the whole year round there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!

Gran'ma Ela says she hopes to see me snug and warm In the bosom of Mugwumpery, whose motto is reform; But Gran'ma Ela he has never known the filling joys Of bossing "boodle" candidates and training with the boys; Of posing as a gentleman although at heart a tough; Of being sometimes out of scalps while some are out of stuff— Or else he'd know that bossing things are good enough for me, Except jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!

When poor Rubens, wondering why I've left my gum-games drop, Inquires with rueful accent: "What's the matter with Hoppy Hop?" The Civic Federation comes from out its hiding-place And allows that Mayor Hopkins is chock-full of saving grace! And I appear so penitent and wear so long a phiz That some folks say: "Good gracious! how improved our mayor is!" But others tumble to my racket and suspicion me, When jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!

For candidates who hope to get there on election day Must mind their p's and q's right sharp in all they do and say, So clean the streets, assess the boys for everything they're worth, Jine all the federations, and promise them the earth! Say "yes 'um" to the ladies, and "yes sur" to the men, And when reform is mentioned, roll your eyes and yell "Amen!" No matter what the past has been—jest watch me now and see How jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!_

I will conclude this exposition of the attitude of Eugene Field to politics, public affairs, and public men with a whimsical bit of his verse, descriptive of how business and politics are mixed in a country store, premising it with the note that Colonel Bunn has since become a national character:

_A STATESMAN'S SORROW

'Twas in a Springfield grocery store, Not many years ago, That Colonel Bunn patrolled the floor, The paragon of woe. Though all the people of the town Were gathered there to buy, Good Colonel Bunn walked up and down With many a doleful sigh.

He vented off a dismal groan, And grunt of sorry kind, And murmured in a hollow tone The thoughts that vexed his mind. "Alas! how pitiful," he said, "And oh! how wondrous vain, To run a party at whose head Stands such a man as Blaine.

"'Tis here, with eager hearts and legs, Folks come to buy their teas— Their coffee, sugar, butter, eggs, Molasses, flour, and cheese— And every article I keep, As all good grocers do, They purchase here amazing cheap— The very finest, too.

"Yet when a canvass must be won, He, who presides it o'er, Is sadly qualified to run A country grocery store; His soul, once mesmerized by Blaine, Is very ill at ease When lowered to the humble plane Of butter, eggs, and teas!

"But what precipitates my woe, And fills my heart with fear, Is all this happy, human flow, With not a word of cheer; They purchase goods of various styles, Yet, as they swell my gain, They mention Cleveland's name with smiles, But never speak of Blaine!"_

Of serious views on political questions Field had none. The same may be truthfully said of his attitude on all social and economic problems. He eschewed controversy and controversial subjects. His study was literature and the domestic side and social amenities of life; and he left the salvation of the republic and the amelioration of the general condition of mankind to those who felt themselves "sealed" to such missions.



CHAPTER IX

HIS "AUTO-ANALYSIS"

In the introduction I have said that if Eugene Field had only written his autobiography, as was once his intention, it would probably have been one of the greatest works of fiction by an American. Early in his career he was the victim of that craze that covets the signatures and manuscript sentiments of persons who have achieved distinction, which later he did so much to foster by precept and practice. He was an inveterate autograph-hunter, and toward the close of his life he paid the penalty of harping on the joys of the collector by the receipt of a perfect avalanche of requests for autographs and extracts from his poems in his own handwriting. The nature of his most popular verses also excited widespread curiosity as to the life, habits, and views of the author of "Little Boy Blue" and "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod." The importunities of this last class of admirers became so numerous that during the winter of 1894 he wrote and had printed what he called his "Auto-Analysis." "I give these facts, confessions, and observations," wrote he, "for the information of those who, for one reason or another, are applying constantly to me for biographical data concerning myself." Such was its author's humor, that behind almost every fact in this "Auto-Analysis" lurks either an error or a hoax. Its confessions are half-truths, and its whimsical observations are purposely designed to lead the reader to false conclusions. And withal the whole document is written with the ingeniousness of a mind without guile, which was one of Field's most highly developed literary accomplishments. No study of Field's character and methods would be complete without giving this very "human document":

AN AUTO-ANALYSIS

I was born in St. Louis, Mo., September 3d, 1850, the second and oldest surviving son of Roswell Martin and Frances (Reed) Field, both natives of Windham County, Vt. Upon the death of my mother (1856), I was put in the care of my (paternal) cousin, Miss Mary Field French, at Amherst, Mass.

In 1865 I entered the private school of Rev. James Tufts, Monson, Mass., and there fitted for Williams College, which institution I entered as a freshman in 1868. Upon my father's death, in 1869, I entered the sophomore class of Knox College, Galesburg, Ill., my guardian, John W. Burgess, now of Columbia College, being then a professor in that institution. But in 1870 I went to Columbia, Mo., and entered the State University there, and completed my junior year with my brother. In 1872 I visited Europe, spending six months and my patrimony in France, Italy, Ireland, and England. In May, 1873, I became a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal. In October of that year I married Miss Julia Sutherland Comstock (born in Chenango County, N.Y.), of St. Joseph, Mo., at that time a girl of sixteen. We have had eight children—three daughters and five sons.

Ill-health compelled me to visit Europe in 1889; there I remained fourteen months, that time being divided between England, Germany, Holland, and Belgium. My residence at present is in Buena Park, a north-shore suburb of Chicago.

My newspaper connections have been as follows: 1875-76, city editor of the St. Joseph (Mo.) Gazette; 1876-80, editorial writer on the St. Louis Journal and St. Louis Times-Journal; 1880-81, managing editor of the Kansas City Times; 1881-83, managing editor of the Denver Tribune. Since 1883 I have been a contributor to the Chicago Record (formerly Morning News).

I wrote and published my first bit of verse in 1879; it was entitled "Christmas Treasures" (see "Little Book of Western Verse"). Just ten years later I began suddenly to write verse very frequently; meanwhile (1883-89) I had labored diligently at writing short stories and tales. Most of these I revised half a dozen times. One, "The Were-Wolf," as yet unpublished, I have rewritten eight times during the last eight years.

My publications have been, chronologically, as follows:

1. "The Tribune Primer," Denver, 1882. (Out of print, very scarce.) ("The Model Primer," illustrated by Hoppin, Treadway, Brooklyn, 1882. A pirate edition.)

2. "Culture's Garland," Ticknor, Boston, 1887. (Out of print.) "A Little Book of Western Verse," Chicago, 1889. (Large paper, privately printed, and limited.) "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," Chicago, 1889. (Large paper, privately printed, and limited.)

3. "A Little Book of Western Verse," Scribners, New York, 1890.

4. "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," Scribners, New York, 1890.

5. "With Trumpet and Drum," Scribners, New York, 1892.

6. "Second Book of Verse," Scribners, New York, 1893.

7. "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" (translations of Horace), McClurg, Chicago, 1893. (In collaboration with my brother, Roswell Martin Field.)

8. Introduction to Stone's "First Editions of American Authors," Cambridge, 1893.

9. "The Holy Cross and Other Tales," Stone & Kimball, Cambridge, 1893.

I have a miscellaneous collection of books, numbering 3,500, and I am fond of the quaint and curious in every line. I am very fond of dogs, birds, and all small pets—a passion not approved by my wife.

My favorite flower is the carnation, and I adore dolls.

My favorite hymn is "Bounding Billows."

My favorites in fiction are Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter," "Don Quixote," and "Pilgrim's Progress."

I greatly love Hans Andersen's "Tales," and I am deeply interested in folk-lore and fairy-tales. I believe in ghosts, in witches, and in fairies.

I should like to own a big astronomical telescope and a twenty-four-tune music-box.

My heroes in history are Martin Luther, Mademoiselle Lamballe, Abraham Lincoln; my favorite poems are Koerner's "Battle Prayer," Wordsworth's "We are Seven," Newman's "Lead, Kindly Light," Luther's "Hymn," Schiller's "The Diver," Horace's "Fons Bandusiae," and Burns's "Cotter's Saturday Night." I dislike Dante and Byron. I should like to have known Jeremiah, the prophet, old man Poggio, Walter Scott, Bonaparte, Hawthorne, Mademoiselle Sontag, Sir John Herschel, Hans Andersen.

My favorite actor is Henry Irving; actress, Mademoiselle Modjeska.

I dislike "politics," so called.

I should like to have the privilege of voting extended to women.

I favor a system of pensions for noble services in literature, art, science, etc. I approve of compulsory education.

If I had my way, I should make the abuse of horses, dogs, and cattle, a penal offence; I should abolish all dog laws and dog catchers, and I would punish severely everybody who caught and caged birds.

I dislike all exercise, and play all games indifferently.

I love to read in bed.

I believe in churches and schools; I hate wars, armies, soldiers, guns, and fireworks.

I like music (limited).

I have been a great theatre-goer.

I enjoy the society of doctors and clergymen.

My favorite color is red.

I do not care particularly for sculpture or for paintings; I try not to become interested in them, for the reason that if I were to cultivate a taste for them I should presently become hopelessly bankrupt.

I am extravagantly fond of perfumes.

I am a poor diner, and I drink no wine or spirits of any kind; I do not smoke tobacco.

I dislike crowds, and I abominate functions.

I am six feet in height, am of spare build, weigh 160 pounds, and have shocking taste in dress.

But I like to have well-dressed people about me.

My eyes are blue, my complexion pale, my face is shaven, and I incline to baldness.

It is only when I look and see how young, and fair, and sweet my wife is that I have a good opinion of myself.

I am fond of companionship of women, and I have no unconquerable prejudice against feminine beauty. I recall with pride that in twenty-two years of active journalism I have always written in reverential praise of womankind.

I favor early marriage.

I do not love all children.

I have tried to analyze my feelings toward children, and I think I discover that I love them, in so far as I can make pets of them.

I believe that, if I live, I shall do my best literary work when I am a grandfather.

So cleverly are truth and fiction dove-tailed together in this "Auto-Analysis" that it would puzzle a jury of his intimate friends to say where Field was attempting to state facts and where he was laughing in his sleeve. Even the enumeration of his publications is amazingly inaccurate for a bibliomaniac's reply to the inquiries of his own guild. Francis Wilson's sumptuous edition of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" preceded that of McClurg, Chicago, 1893, by more than two years, and a limited edition of the "Second Book of Verse" was published privately by Melville E. Stone, Chicago, 1892, more than a year before it was published by the Scribners, as stated in Field's chronological order.

Under ordinary circumstances such lapses in a list of a writer's published works would be a venial fault, and not worth mentioning; but in the case of one who set such store on "special large paper limited editions," they would be inexplicable—if that writer had not been Eugene Field. With him they were simply a notification to his intimates that the whole thing was not to be taken as a serious bibliology of his works or index of his character.

So far as the cyclopedic narrative of his life is concerned, it is intended to be fairly accurate; but Field's notion that he suddenly began to write verse very frequently in 1889 runs contrary to the record in Denver and Chicago from 1881 to 1888, inclusive. The intentional waggery of misinformation masquerading as truth begins where Field leaves the recital of his life to give what purports to be an analysis of his character and sentiments. Here he lets his "winged fancy loose." He mingles fact with his fiction even as

The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence.

Not that Field had any deep design to betray anyone lurking behind the fictitious and facetious candor of this apparent self-revelation. This "Auto-Analysis" was written in response to the almost innumerable questions which, about that time, were being propounded in the newspapers and on the leaves of sentiment autograph albums. Hence the forms of Field's replies. For instance, to "What is your favorite flower?" he answered, "My favorite flower is the carnation;"—and with utter irrelevancy, added—"and I adore dolls!" Now Field was not particularly fond of flowers, and if he had a favorite, it was the rose, the pansy, or the violet.

Of his three favorites in fiction "Don Quixote" is the only one to which he gave a second thought, although early familiarity with "Pilgrim's Progress" undoubtedly left its impression on his retentive memory. A more truthful answer would have been "The New England Primer," "The Complete Angler," and Father Prout. To another inquirer he said, "My favorite authors of prose are Cervantes, Hawthorne, Andersen, Sir Thomas Mallory," a very much more accurate statement. His love for the fairy-tales of Andersen and Grimm survived from the knee of his little Mormon nurse to the last tale he wrote; but his belief in ghosts, witches, and fairies was all in his literary mind's eye. He took the same delight in employing them in his works as he did flim-flams, flub-dubs, and catamarans. They were a part of his stock in trade, just as wooden animals were of Caleb Plummer's toy-shop. I think Field cherished a genuine admiration for Abraham Lincoln, whose whole life, nature, personal appearance, unaffected greatness, manner of speech, and fate appealed to his idea of what "the first American" should be. But strike the names of Newman, Horace, old man Poggio, Walter Scott, and Hans Andersen from the list of his favorites that follow the name of Lincoln, and it gains in truth as it shrinks in length.

Upon the question of extending the right to vote to women, Field wasted no more thought than he did on "Politics," whether so called or not. This was a springe to catch the "wimmen folks, God bless them." He seldom took the trouble to vote himself, and ridiculed the idea of women demeaning themselves to enter the dirty strife for public office—as he regarded the beginning, middle, and end of all politics.

Field had the strongest possible aversion to violence or brutality of any kind. He considered capital punishment as barbarous. He was not opposed to it because he regarded it as inaffective as a punishment or a deterrent of crime, but simply because taking life, and especially human life, was abhorrent to him. Hence his "hatred" of wars, armies, soldiers, and guns.

Something more than a paragraph is needed to explain that word "limited" after Field's declaration "I like music." "Like" is a feeble word in this connection, and "limited" by his sense of the absurdity of reducing its enjoyment to an intellectual pursuit. He loved the music that appealed to the heart, the mind, the emotions through the ear. But for years he scoffed at and ridiculed the attempt to convey by the "harmony of sweet sounds" or alternating discords impressions or sentiments of things than can only be comprehended through the eye. He loved both vocal and instrumental music, and was a constant attendant on opera and concert.

I have a unique documentary proof of Eugene Field's taste in music. Written on the folded back of a sheet of foolscap, which, on its face, preserves his original manuscript of "A Noon Tide Hymn," are three suggestions for the "request programmes" with which Theodore Thomas used to vary his concerts in the old Exposition Building in Chicago. Field seldom missed these concerts, and he always made a point of forwarding his choice for the next "request night." This one was as follows:

1. Invitation to Dance Weber 2. Spring Song Mendelssohn 3. Largho Handel 4. Rhapsody Hongroise(2) Liszt

1. Vorspiel Lohengrin 2. Waltz movement Volkman 3. Serenade Schubert 4. Ride of Walkures

1. Sylvia 2. 3. Ave Maria Bach-Gounod Introd. } 4. Nap. } Wagner. March. }

The only limitation to a liking for music such as is revealed here is that it be good music. Mr. Thomas in those days scarcely ever made up a programme without including in it one of Field's favorites.

Referring to music recalls the fact that Field once seriously contemplated writing a comic opera; and he only failed to carry out his purpose because he could not get the dialogue to suit him; moreover, he realized that he had but a limited grasp of the dramatic action and situations necessary in such work. How completely he had this work mapped out may be judged from the following memoranda, the manuscript of which is before me:

THE BUCCANEERS

Fernando, the Begum—basso. Paquita, his daughter—soprano. Christopher, the buccaneer—baritone. Mercedes, his sister—contralto. Carlos, a Peruvian lieutenant—tenor. Gonzales, Begum of Ohnos. Buccaneers, maidens, ballet, servants, etc.

Time of action—three days, 1860.

Scenes: First and third acts, in garden adjoining Fernando's mansion, suburbs of Piura.

Second act, on board the ship "Perdita," port of Payla.

FIRST ACT

Fernando, the Begum, is about to give a moonlight fete in honor of his daughter's betrothal to Carlos. The young people are not particularly overjoyed at the prospect of their union, Carlos having given his heart, some years previously, to Mercedes, who is now married to a captain in the Chilian army, and Paquita having fallen desperately in love with a handsome young stranger whom she has, upon several occasions, met upon the sea-shore. This stranger is Christopher, who, for his participation in a petty revolt, has been declared an outlaw, and has taken to the life of a buccaneer, joined by numerous lively companions. Overcome by love of Paquita, Christopher manages to get himself and his band introduced at the fete, and in the midst of the festivities the young women are seized and carried aboard the buccaneers' ship.

SECOND ACT

Carlos, who has been taken prisoner with the girls, discovers that Mercedes, the buccaneer captain's sister, is his old fiancee, and is now a widow; explanations ensue and a reconciliation takes place. While debating how they shall advise Paquita of the truth, they overhear a conversation between Christopher and Paquita. Paquita declares that if Christopher really loves her, he will come and woo her as an honorable man should. Christopher is about to release the captives, when Mercedes suggests, that to ensure the safety of the buccaneers Carlos be detained as a hostage. Carlos indorses the suggestion. The young ladies are permitted to go ashore.

THIRD ACT

While Fernando storms over the retention of Carlos, Paquita sadly broods over her love for Christopher. As she soliloquizes at her window Christopher appears. He cannot remain away from the object of his love. A scene ensues between the two. In the meantime Carlos and Mercedes have secretly stolen from the ship and been married by the village priest. They appear while Paquita and Christopher are conversing. (Quartette.) Fernando hears the commotion. (Quintette.) Christopher is discovered and apprehended. The buccaneers appear to rescue their long-absent captain. Explanations. Fernando informs the buccaneers that under the amnesty act of the king they are no longer outlaws. Christopher's estates await him. Carlos and Mercedes appear. Fernando gives Paquita to Christopher.

It will be perceived that the spirited action of this "argument," as Field styled it, practically ends with the first act, a fault which the veriest neophyte in the art of libretto writing knows is fatal. But the most interesting feature of this opera in embryo is the list of songs which Field had planned for it. They were:

SONGS

"Begum of Piura." "The Crazy Quilt." "My Life is One Continuous Lie." "By Day Upon the Billowy Sea." Lullaby—"Do Not Wake the Baby." "The Good Old Way." Barcarolle—"I've Come Across the Water."

TRIO

"He Really Does Not Seem to Know."

DUETS

"My Love Was Fair." "To the Sea, O Love!" "O Dearest Love, Through all the Years." "Into God's Hands."

FEMALE CHORUS

"Down the Forest Pathway."

MALE CHORUS

"From the Farms." "We are a Band of Gallant Tars."

MIXED CHORUS

"Hail, O Happy Nuptial Day!" "Ah!" "Where Turtle Doves are Cooing." "The Spanish Dance." "They're Delightful." "Oh, Can Such Wonders Be?" "How Sweet to Fly." "He Really Must Be Ailing." "Adieu, Sweet Love."

QUARTETTE

"The Old Love." "The Parent's Voice."

QUINTETTE

"Oh, What Were Life."

Field always insisted that Messrs. Smith and DeKoven got the title, if not some of the inspiration, for their opera "The Begum" from the argument of his "Buccaneer," the scheme of which he showed to Harry B. Smith, then a member of the Morning News staff. But the reason for his failure to carry out his operatic venture is obvious in the argument itself. It is intrinsically deficient in the elements of surprise, novel situations, and dramatic action necessary for stage effect. Field would have made it rich in lyrics, but as has been often proved, lyrics alone cannot make a successful opera. He quickly appreciated this and abandoned the work with "Oh, What Were Life?"

There never was any doubt of Field's "shocking taste in dress," and he never sought to cultivate or reform it. But what will those who knew him say of the statement, "I am a poor diner, and I drink no wine or spirits of any kind; I do not smoke tobacco." Field was, by the common verdict of those who had the pleasure of meeting him at any dinner company, the best diner-out they ever knew. He had a keen enjoyment of the pleasures of the table, and but for that wretched stomach would have been as much of an authority on eating as he came to be on collecting. He loved to discuss the art of dining, although he was forbidden to practise it heartily.

His favorite gift-books "appertained" to the art of cooking, in one of which (Hazlitt's "Old Cooking Books") I find inscribed to Mrs. Thompson:

_Big bokes with nony love I send To those by whom I set no store— But see, I give to you, sweete friend, A lyttel boke and love gallore!

E.F._

Field gave up drinking wine and all kinds of alcoholic liquors, as has been related, before coming to Chicago. And yet I have seen him sniff the bouquet of some rare wine or liquor with the quivering nostril of a connoisseur, but—and this was the marvel to his associates—without "the ruby," as Dick Swiveller termed it, being the least temptation to his lips.

Eugene Field "not smoke tobacco"! He was one of the most inveterate smokers in America. If he had been given his choice between giving up pie or tobacco, I verily believe he would have thrown away the pie and stuck to the soothing weed out of which he sucked daily and hourly comfort. He had acquired the Yankee habit of ruminating with a small quid of tobacco in his cheek when a good cigar was not between his teeth. He consumed not only all the cigars that fell to his share in a profession where cigars are the invariable concomitants of every chance meeting, every social gathering, and every public function, but also those that in the usual round of our life fell to me. And I was not his only abetter in despoiling the Egyptians who thought to work the freedom of the press with a few passes of the narcotic weed. It is a curious fact that Field's pretended aversion to tobacco persists through all his writings, from the Denver Primer sketches down. In those we find him attributing the authorship of this warning to children to S.J. Tilden:

Oh, children, you Must never chew Tobacco—it is Awful! The Juice will Quickly make you Sick If once you get your Maw Full.

He never ceased having discussions with himself over the wording or authorship of the famous lines attributed to "Little Robert Reed," as in the following:

Lo and behold! This is the way the St. Louis Republican mangles an old, quaint, beautiful, and popular poem:

"I would not use tobacco," said Little Robert Reed. "I would not use tobacco, for 'Tis a nasty weed."

We protest against this brutal mutilization of a grand old classic. The quatrain should read, as in the original, thus:

"I'll never chew tobacco—no, It is a filthy weed; I'll never put it in my mouth," Said little Robert Reed.

By the way, who was the author of the poem of which the foregoing is the first stanza?

I need scarcely refer the reader to Field's confession in his letter of December 12th, 1891, to Mr. Gray of his struggle to give up the use of tobacco, and to the photograph of Field at work, to indicate that his "I do not smoke tobacco" was but one more of those harmless hoaxes he took such pains to carry through at the expense of an ever-credulous public.

Only one more point in regard to the "Auto-Analysis," and I am through with that whimsical concoction; and that is in reference to his attitude toward children. Knowing full well that his inquiring admirers expected him to rhapsodize upon his love for children, he deliberately set about disappointing them with:

I do not love all children.

I have tried to analyze my feelings toward children, and I think I discover that I love them in so far as I can make pets of them.

Of course this was received with a chorus of incredulity—as it was intended it should be. The autograph hunters who had formed their conception of Field from his lullabies, his "Little Boy Blue," his "Krinken," his "Wynken," and his score of other poems, all proving his mastery over the strings that vibrate with the rocking of the cradle, at once pronounced this the most delicious hit of their author's humor. They knew that such songs could only emanate from a man whose heart overflowed with the warmest sentiment to all childhood. They were convinced that Field must love all children, and nothing he could say could change their conviction.



And yet those words, "I do not love all children," are the truest six words in his "Auto-Analysis." Field not only did not love all children, he truly loved very few children. His own children were very dear to him, both those that came in his early wedded life and the two who were born to him after his return from Europe. They were a never-failing source of interest and enjoyment to him. They were the human documents he loved best to study. They wore no masks to conceal their emotions, and he hated masks—on others. But above all, they were bone of his bone and flesh of his love, the pledges and hostages he had given to fortune, and they were the children of her to whom he had vowed eternal faith "when their two lives were young." But Field's fondness for other people's children was like that of an entomologist for bugs—for purposes of study, dissection, and classification. He delighted to see the varying shades of emotion chase each other across their little tell-tale faces. This man, who could not have set his foot on a worm, who shrank from the sight of pain inflicted on any dumb animal, took almost as much delight in making a child cry, that he might study its little face in dismay or fright, as in making it laugh, that he might observe its method of manifesting pleasure. He read the construction of child-nature in the unreserved expressions of childish emotions as he provoked or evoked them. Thus he grew to know children as few have known them, and his exceptional gift of writing for and about them was the result of deliberate study rather than of personal sympathy. That his own children were sometimes a trial to their "devoted mother" and "fond father," as he described their parents, may be inferred from the facts which were the basis of such bits of confidence between Field and the readers of his "Sharps and Flats" as this:

An honest old gentleman living on the North Side has two young sons, who, like too many sons of honest gentlemen, are given much to boyish worldliness, such as playing "hookey" and manufacturing yarns to keep themselves from under the maternal slipper. The other day the two boys started out, ostensibly for school, but as they did not come home to dinner and were not seen by their little sister about the school-grounds, the awful suspicion entered the good mother's mind that they had again been truant. Along about dark one of them, the younger, came in blue with cold.

"Why, Pinny," said the mother, "where have you been?"

"Oh, down by the lake, getting warm," said the youngster.

"Down by the lake?"

"Yes; we were cold, and we saw the smoke coming up from the lake, so we went down there to get warm. And," he continued, in a propitiatory tone, "we thought we'd catch some fish for supper."

"Fish?" exclaimed the mother.

"Yes; Melvin's comin' with the fish."

At this juncture the elder boy walked in triumphantly holding up a dried herring tied to the end of a yard or so of twine.

That night, when the honest old gentleman reached home, the young men got a warming without having to go to the steaming lake.

But all of Field's keen analytical comprehension of child-nature is purified and exalted in his writings by his unalloyed reverence for motherhood. The child is the theme, but it is almost always for the mother he sings. Even here, however, he could not always resist the temptation to relieve sentiment with a piece of humor, as in the following clever congratulations to a friend on the birth of a son:

A handsome and lively, though wee body Is the son of my friend, Mrs. Peabody— It affords me great joy That her son is a boy, And not an absurd little she-body.

More than thirty years since the late Professor John Fiske, when asked to write out an account of his daily life for publication, did very much the same thing as Field palmed off on his correspondents in his "Auto-Analysis." He gave some "sure-enough" facts as to his birth, education, and manner of life, but mixed in with the truth such a medley of grotesque falsehoods about his habits of study, eating, and drinking, that he supposed the whole farrago would be thrown into the waste-paper basket. For thirty years he lived in the serene belief that such had been its fate. But one day he was unpleasantly reminded of his mistake. The old manuscript had been resurrected "from the worm-hole of forgotten years," and he was published widecast as a glutton, not only of work, but in eating, drinking, and sleeping. A man who defied all the laws of hygiene, of moderation, and of rest. And when he died, from heat prostration—an untimely death, that robbed his country of its greatest student mind, while yet his energies were boundless—that thoughtless story of thirty years ago was revived, to justify the "I told you sos" of the public press.

His "Auto-Analysis" was not the only hoax of this description in which Eugene Field indulged. In 1893 Hamlin Garland contributed an article to McClure's Magazine, entitled, "A Dialogue Between Eugene Field and Hamlin Garland." It purported to be an interview which the latter had with the former in his "attic study" in Chicago. Field was represented surrounded by "a museum of old books, rare books, Indian relics, dramatic souvenirs, and bric-a-brac indescribable." The result is a most remarkable jumble of misinformation and fiction, with which Field plied Garland to the top of his bent. What Garland thought were bottom facts were really sky-scraping fiction. As if this were not enough, Garland made Field talk in an approach to an illiterate dialect, such as he never employed and cordially detested. Garland represented Field as discussing social and economic problems—why not the "musical glasses," deponent saith not. The really great and characteristic point in the dialogue was where something Field said caused "Garland to lay down his pad and lift his big fist in the air like a maul. His enthusiasm rose like a flood." The whole interview was a serious piece of business to the serious-minded realist. To Field, at the time, and for months after, it was a huge and memorable joke.

But there are thousands who accept the Eugene Field of the "Auto-Analysis" and of the Garland dialogue as the true presentment of the man, when the real man is only laughing in his sleeve at the reader and the interviewer in both of them.



CHAPTER X

LAST YEARS

If this were a record of a life, and not a study of character, with the side-lights bearing upon its development and idiosyncrasies, there would remain much to write of Eugene Field after his return from abroad. Much came to him in fame, in fortune, in his friendships, and in his home. Two more children were born to brighten his hearthstone and refresh his memories of childhood and the enchanting ways of children. The elder of these two, a son, was named Roswell Francis, a combination of the names of Field's father and mother, with the change of a vowel to suit his sex; the younger, his second daughter, was christened Ruth, after Mrs. Gray, in whose home Field had found, more than a score of years before, the disinterested affection of a mother, "a refuge from temptation, care, and vexation."

Although immediately upon getting back Field resumed his daily grind of "Sharps and Flats" for the Chicago Record, his paragraphs showed more and more the effects of his reading and his withdrawal from the activities and associations of men. Mankind continued to interest him as much as ever, but books wearied him less, and in his home were more easily within reach. This home was now at 420 Fullerton Avenue, an old-fashioned house on the northern limit of old Chicago, rather off the beaten track. It was the fifth place the Field household had set up its lares and penates since coming to Chicago. In consequence of his collecting mania, his impedimenta had become a puzzle to house and a domestic cataclysm to move.

By 1891 Field realized, as none of his family or friends did, that his health would never be better, and that it behooved him to put his house in order and make the most of the strength remaining. If he needed the words of a mentor to warn him, he could have found them in the brief memoir his uncle, Charles Kellogg, had written of his father. In that I find this remarkable anticipation of what befell his son, written of Roswell M. Field—who, be it remembered, started in life with a healthy and vigorous body, whereas uncertain health and a rebellious stomach were Eugene Field's portion all the days of his life.

He [Field's father] made the perusal of the Greek and Latin classics his most delightful pastime. In fact, he resorted to this scientific research, particularly in the department of mathematics, for his chief mental recreation. It is greatly to be regretted that he neglected to combine, with his cessation from professional labor, some employment which would have revived and strengthened his physical frame. He was averse to active exercise, and for some years before his death he lived a life of studious seclusion which would have been philosophical had he not violated, in the little care he took of his health, one of the most important lessons which philosophy teaches. At a comparatively early age he died of physical exhaustion, a deterioration of the bodily organs, and an incapacity, on their part, to discharge the vital functions—a wearing out of the machine before the end of the term for which its duration was designed. He was eminently qualified to serve, as well as to adorn, society, and in all likelihood he would have found in a greater variety of occupation some relief from the monotonous strain under which his energies prematurely gave way.

But the conditions that confronted Eugene Field at the age of forty-one were very different from those under which his father succumbed prematurely at sixty-one. He had made a name and fame for himself, but had not stored any of the harvest his writings were beginning to yield. He could write, as he did, that he expected to do his best literary work when a grandfather, but he had no belief that he would live to enjoy that happy Indian summer of paternity. He was tired of being moved from rented flat to rented house with his accumulated belongings, and he yearned with the "sot" New England yearning for a permanent home, a roof-tree that he could call his own, a patch of earth in which he could "slosh around," with no landlord to importune for grudging repairs.

And so Field's life during his last years has to be considered as a struggle with physical exhaustion, fighting off the inevitable reckoning until he could provide himself and his family with a home and leave to his dear ones the means of retaining it, with the opportunities of education for the juniors. And bravely and cheerily he faced the situation. Neither in his social relations nor in his daily task was there observable any trace of the tax he was putting upon his over-strained energy. He could not afford to make the study of classics a delightful pastime, as his father did, but he made it contribute a constant and delightful fund of reference and allusion in his column. His first books were selling steadily, and he worked assiduously to make hay while the sun was still above the horizon. In quick succession, "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," "With Trumpet and Drum," the "Second Book of Verse," "The Holy Cross and Other Tales," and "Love Songs of Childhood," with few exceptions, collected from his daily contributions to the Chicago Record, were issued from the press in both limited and popular editions.

On the top of his regular work, which in collected form began to be productive beyond his fondest expectations, Field allowed himself to be over-persuaded into entering the platform field. The managers of reading-bureaus had been after him for years; but he had resisted their alluring offers, because he would not make a show of himself, and the exertion fagged him. But in the later years of his life they came at him again, with the promise of more pay per night than he could get by writing in a week, and he reluctantly made occasional engagements, which were a drain on his vitality as well as an offence to his peculiar notions of personal dignity. After each of these excursions into the platform field, either in the triple alliance with "Bill" Nye and James Whitcomb Riley, or with George W. Cable, in a most effective combination, Field returned to his home in Chicago richer in pocket and interesting experiences, but distinctly poorer in the vital reserve necessary to prolong the battle with that rebellious stomach.

The presidential campaign of 1892 quite revived his interest in politics and politicians, and drew him away from the association with books at home and with the Saints and Sinners at McClurg's. For a time it looked as if he had been weaned from the circle of collectors, and never had his column held up to ridicule so fiercely the humbug and hypocricy of political methods as during that summer. One day after the nomination of Harrison and Reid, at Minneapolis, his column contained no fewer than forty-one political paragraphs, each one "ringing the bell" of mirth or scorn, as the subject warranted.

In the following winter there came the first hiatus in his regular contributions to the Record. But he resumed work in May, his return being heralded by a paragraph beginning, "This is a beautiful world, and life herein is very sweet," a note theretofore seldom heard in his paragraphs, though often struck in his "Profitable Tales"; and thenceforward in his daily work his thoughts recur to the beauty of the world and his gladness to be in it. Thus in the following July he wrote:

What beautiful weather this is! How full of ozone the atmosphere is; how bright the sunshine is, and how blue this noble lake of ours lies under the cloudless sky! It is simply ideal weather. Who does not rejoice in the change from the oppressive heat of last week? Vigor is restored to all. Commerce revives, and humanity is hopeful and cheering again.

And what lovely nights we are having! The moonlight was never more glorious. Unhappy is that man, old or young, who hath not a sweetheart to share with him the poetic grace of our satellite! And such nights for sleep! Morning comes before it is welcome.

Yes, this world of ours is very beautiful, and we are glad that we are in and of it.

The summer of 1893, with the crowds and various excitements of the World's Fair, was very exhausting to Field, albeit he enjoyed the wonder and beauty of the Columbian Exposition with all the intent eagerness of a twelve-year-old lad at a country circus. Everything that happened down at Jackson Park that memorable season, especially the social rivalries of the different managing bodies, was fair game for his roguish wit. The liberties which he took with the names and reputations of public men showed that the old spirit of waggery was not dead within him. This is illustrated in such verses as these:

_The shades of night were falling fast As through the world's fair portal passed A certain Adlai Stevenson, Whose bead-like eyes were fixed upon The Midway.

He was the very favorite son Of proud, immortal Bloomington: And, hankering for forbidden joys, He pined to whoop up with the boys The Midway

"Try not those fakes," a stranger said, "Unless you're hankering to be bled!" Alas, these words were all for naught— With still more fervor Adlai sought The Midway.

"Beware the divers games of chance, Beware that Street in Cairo dance!" All, all in vain, the warning cry— Adlai whooped, as he sailed by: "The Midway!"

But why pursue this harrowing tale? Far better we should drop the veil Of secrecy before begin His exploits in that Vale of Sin, The Midway._

In the spring of 1892 Field was fortunate enough to find a house in Buena Park, a northern suburb of Chicago, which, besides having the convenience of a trolley connection with the centre of the city, had the incalculable advantage of overlooking the extensive and beautiful private grounds justly celebrated in "The Delectable Ballad of the Waller Lot":

_Up yonder in Buena Park There is a famous spot, In legend and in history Yclept the Waller Lot.

There children play in daytime And lovers stroll by dark, For 'tis the goodliest trysting place In all Buena Park._

Next to owning a homestead, with rolling lawns and groves of old trees and family associations, Field enjoyed having someone else bear the burden of their maintenance for his immediate personal delectation, and the Waller homestead, with its park effects, afforded him that inexpensive pleasure. His windows looked out upon a truly sylvan scene, the gates to which were always invitingly open, southern fashion, to congenial wayfarers. The more Field saw of the Waller lot, the more completely did the old New England hankering after a homestead, with acres instead of square feet of lawn and trees, take possession of him; and the spectre of ten years' rent for inconvenient flats and houses rose in his memory and urged him to buy land and build for himself. This finally resulted in the following letter to the old friend to whom he always went in any financial emergency, and from whom he never came empty handed away:

DEAR MR. GRAY: An experience of a good many years has convinced me that the best way to deal with one's fellow-creatures, and particularly with one's friends, is directly and candidly. This is one of the several considerations which lead me to write to you now asking you whether it be within your power (and also whether it be your willingness) to help me buy a home in Chicago. Julia has been at me for a year to ask this of you. I have hesitated to do so in the fear that the application might seem to be an attempt to take advantage of your friendship for me—a friendship manifested in many ways and covering a period of many years. Perhaps, however, we can now look at the matter more as a business proposition than would have been possible a year or two ago, for I am at last in a position to pay interest promptly on a considerable amount of money. To be more explicit, the sum of One Hundred and Fifty Dollars ($150) is set aside monthly by the Record toward what Mr. Lawson calls my "building fund," which sum the Record is prepared to guarantee and pay to anybody making me the loan of money necessary to secure the home I want.

I am very anxious for a habitation of my own. The desire is one that gives me no peace, and I see no other way to its fulfilment than through the liberality of any friend, or friends, with money to lend. Before setting my heart upon any locality, or upon any particular spot, it is wise that I should know whether and where the assistance I need can be had. My first application is to you, and I make it timidly, for, as I have said, it is very distasteful to me to do that which may look like imposing upon friendship. In case you found it possible and feasible to aid me, I should want you to come to Chicago and take a look over the field with Julia and me.

We are fairly well. With every cordial regard,

Yours affectionately,

EUGENE FIELD. Buena Park, September 16th, 1893.

There had ever been but one response from Mr. Gray to such an appeal as this from his quondam ward, and Field was not disappointed this time. But l'homme propose et Dieu dispose; and in this case there was no woman to intervene, as in the Spanish version of the proverb, to "discompose" the disposition of Deity. Before the project contemplated in Field's letter took tangible shape, however, he was laid on his back by a severe cold, which developed into pneumonia. On his recovery, the doctor advised that he should go to California; and on November 8th he wrote to Mr. Gray, asking him if he and his niece could not be ready to accompany him about the 1st of December. Concluding a very brief note, he said: "Writing makes me very tired, so pray pardon my brutal brevity. I send very much love to you and yours. Many, many times have I thought of you, dear friend, during the last three painful weeks, and I have wished that you were here, that I might speak with you." Mr. Gray arranged to join Field on the trip, which the latter outlined in a letter to him December 4th, 1893:

I shall probably be ready to start for Los Angeles the latter part of this week. My plans at present are very limited, extending only to Los Angeles and San Diego. At the latter point it will be wise for me to remain three weeks. That will practically make me a well man. It is said to be a lovely spot. From there I shall want to go for a week or ten days to Madame Modjeska's ranch, located ten miles from the railway, half-way between San Diego and Los Angeles. It is a large ranch—1,000 acres. Madame Modjeska has put it at my disposal, and Lynch and you must help me bear the responsibility thereof. Later in the winter we will go up to San Francisco and visit Henry Field awhile. I will let you know when we start, and if you can't join us at Kansas City, suppose you come on as soon as you can and join me at San Diego. We go to Los Angeles by the Santa Fe. On receipt of this, telegraph me if you can leave Saturday or Sunday. If you are cramped for finances, what sort of a fix do you suppose I'm in? But we must all live; we cannot afford to die just yet. I went down to dinner for the first time on Thursday; I am feeling pretty brisk. Love to Miss Eva.

Ever affectionately yours, with a sore finger,

EUGENE FIELD.

Field did not find in California the "glorious climate" which the well-meant advice of his physicians had led him to expect. His going up to San Francisco in winter to visit his cousin was a mistake, which he quickly regretted, as the following testifies:

DEAR MR. GRAY: I am very tired of freezing to death, and I have made up my mind to get into a country where I can at least keep warm. Ever since I got to California I have shivered, and shivered, and shivered, and there seem to be no facilities for ameliorating this unpleasant condition here. I am told that in six months or a year the new-comer becomes acclimated; I do not regard that as encouraging. So I am heading for New Orleans. But we drop off at Los Angeles to admit of my being with you long enough to write the memoir of dear Mrs. Gray—a duty to which I shall apply myself with melancholy pleasure. I think we shall arrive Thursday morning. I hope you are all well, and that Miss Eva has not yet been carried off by any pirate or Philadelphia brewer. I continue to gain in weight.

Affectionately yours,

EUGENE FIELD. Alameda, Cal., January 6th, 1894, Saturday evening.

Field kept the promise of this letter, and the memoir of Mrs. Gray then written is a genuine work of love, composed amid "environments," as he wrote, "conducive to the sincerity and the enthusiasm which should characterize such a noble task." Here is his picture of the surroundings, redolent of the incense of sunshine and flowers that fills that favored clime:

A glorious panorama is spread before me—such a picture as the latitude of southern California presents at the time when elsewhere upon this continent of ours the resentment of winter is visited. All around me is the mellow grace of sunshine, roses, lilies, heliotropes, carnations, marigolds, nasturtiums, marguerites, and geraniums are a-bloom; and as far as the eye can reach, the green velvet of billowing acres is blended with the passion of wild poppies; the olive, the orange, and the lemon abound; yonder a vineyard lies fast asleep in the glorious noonday; the giant rubber trees in all this remarkable fairy-land are close at hand; and the pepper, the eucalyptus, the live oak, and the palm are here, and there, and everywhere.

A city is in the distance; the smoke that curls up therefrom makes dim fantastic figures against the beautiful blue of the sky. There is toil in that place, and the din of busy humanity; but upon this faraway hillside, with the sweetest gifts of Nature about me, I care not for these things. I am soothed by the melodies of wild birds, and by the music of the gentle winds that come from the great white ocean beyond the valleys and the hills, away off there where the ships go sailing.

Perhaps Ruskin, the great artist-master of word-painting, might have produced as perfect a gem of English description as this. But who besides of our contemporaries has? To my mind, it is the proof of the perfection of the technical skill in expression to which Field arrived through arduous years, softened and refined by the emotions of affection and gratitude which swept over him as he thought of her who had been a mother to him. It has its counterpart in the succeeding description of the Pelham hills, in which "the yonder glimpse of the Pacific becomes the silver thread of the Connecticut," which I have already quoted in a previous chapter.

Evidently, too, the glorious climate of California was a blessing which brightened as Field took his flight toward the East. Early in February he was back in the harness in Chicago, celebrating his return with characteristic gayety in "Lyrics of a Convalescent." But his contributions to the paper through the winter and early spring of 1894 were confined to occasional verse. After a short trip to New Orleans, in April, he resumed active work the first week in May; and for the remainder of the year his column gave daily evidence of his mental activity and cheerfulness.

It was while in New Orleans in the spring of 1894 that the following incident, illustrative of the boyish freaks that still engaged Field's ingenuity, occurred. I quote from a letter of one of the participants, Cyrus K. Drew, of Louisville: "I met Field on one of his pilgrimages for old bottles, pewter ware, and any old thing in the junk line. Some friends of mine introduced our party to Mr. Field and Wilson Barrett and members of his company then playing an engagement in New Orleans. Mr. Field's greatest delight was in teasing Miss Maude Jeffries, a Mississippi girl, then leading lady in Mr. Barrett's company. She was very sensitive and modest, and it delighted Field greatly when he could playfully embarrass her. One day I found him in his room busy on the floor pasting large sheets of brown paper together. He had written a poem to Miss Jeffries in the centre of a large sheet of this wrapping paper in his characteristic small hand—indeed, much smaller than usual. On the edges of this sheet I found him pasting others of equal size, so that the whole when complete made a single sheet about eight feet square. This he carefully folded up to fit an improvised envelope about the size of a Mardi Gras souvenir, then being distributed about the city. With the joyousness of a boy about to play a prank, he chased down-stairs at the noon hour when he knew Miss Jeffries was at lunch with Mr. Barrett in the cafe of the Grunewald. Calling a waiter, he sent the huge envelope in to her table. She glanced at it a moment and then gradually drew the package from its envelope, while Field and I stood watching behind the entrance. It spread all over the table as she continued to unfold the enormous sheet, and its rustle attracted the attention of nearly every one in the room. When it had spread itself all over Mr. Barrett, who meanwhile was laughing heartily, Miss Jeffries discovered the poem in Field's hand, and, although blushing crimson, joined in the laughter, for she knew he was somewhere about enjoying her discomfort."

By August of this same year he had his "Love Songs of Childhood" in shape for the publishers, and had once more taken up the project of acquiring a home. What Field was doing, as well as thinking about, a little later is pretty accurately reflected in the following letter to Mr. Gray:

DEAR MR. GRAY: Ever since your return from the East I have been intending to write to you. I have time and again reproached myself for my neglect to do so. I have not been very well. About the first of September I had one of my old dyspeptic attacks, and since then my stomach has troubled me more or less, reducing me in weight and making me despondent. I think, however, I am now on the upgrade once more. After you left here Julia was quite sick for a spell. She was on the verge of nervous prostration. I packed her off to Lynch's for a month, and she came back very much improved, and now she weighs more than ever before. The children are well. Trotty attends a day school near by. Pinny has gone back to his military school, and is doing very well. I would like to send Daisy to the same school, for he is not doing well at public school; but my expenses have been so large the last year that I cannot incur any further expense. The babies are doing finely. The boy is as fat as butter, and handsome as ever. Little Ruth cut her first tooth to-day. I never loved a baby as I love her. She is very well now; her flesh has become solid and she is gaining in weight. She is playful and good-natured, sure prognostics of good health. Roswell and Etta went East the 9th of September, and were gone fifteen days; they visited Amherst, Boston, New York, Greenfield, Brattleboro, and Newfane. Roswell regretted not knowing your whereabouts, for he wanted to have you along for a sentimental journey in Vermont. Etta is now with us. She returns to Kansas City next Sunday night. I am pained to hear of Dr. Johnson's illness; pray, give him my love and tell him that he ought to be less frisky if he hopes to keep his limbs sound. I am not surprised that you have got to go South. And I am glad of it. Yes, I am glad to know that you will get away from business and that implacable crowd who are constantly trying to bleed you of money. I want to see you enjoying life as far as you can, and I want to see you getting actual benefit from the money which you have earned by your many years of conscientious industry. To me there is no other spectacle in the world so humiliating as that of people laying themselves out to extort money from others. Do tear yourself away from the sponges. You and Miss Eva ought to have a quiet winter in a congenial climate. I hope you will go to Florida, and, after doing Jacksonville and St. Augustine, why not rent a little furnished cottage and keep house for the winter? Along in February I will run down and make you a visit. Now, think this over, and let me know what you think of it. Mr. Gray, there is no need of there being any sentimentality between us; there never has been. Yet there is every reason why the bond of affection should be a very strong one. My father and you were associates many years, and at his death he very wisely constituted you the guardian (to a great extent) of his two boys. I feel that you have more than executed his wishes; I feel that you have fulfilled those hopes which he surely had that you would be a kind of second father to us, counselling us prudently and succoring us in a timely and generous manner, for which we—for I speak for us both—are deeply, affectionately grateful. It would please me so very much to have you promise me that if ever you are ill or if ever you feel that my presence would relieve your loneliness you will apprise me and let me come to you. If I could afford to do so, I would cheerfully abandon my daily work and go to live with you, doing such purely literary work as delights me; that would, indeed, be very pleasant to me. One of my great regrets is that circumstances compel me to grind away at ephemeral work which is wholly averse to my tastes. But enough of this. Within a month my new book, "Love Songs of Childhood," will be out. I regard it as my best work so far, and am hoping it will be profitable. I do occasional readings. This afternoon I appeared at the Art Institute with Joseph Jefferson, Sol Smith Russell, Octave Thanet, and Hamlin Garland. I recited "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," "Seein' Things at Night," and "Our Two Opinions," and was heartily encored, but declined to do anything further. Julia, Ida, Posie, and I may drop in on you Saturday morning to spend Sunday. Would you like it? Would the child be too much for the peace and dignity of the household? Dear Mr. Gray, do be good to yourself. Don't let the rest of creation worry you one bit. You are about the only man I have to depend upon, for you know the good that is in me, as well as the folly. Our love to the Butterflyish Miss Eva, and more love to you—God bless you! Ever affectionately yours,

EUGENE FIELD. 1033 Evanston Ave., Station X, Chicago, October 25th, 1894.

This is the most soberly, self-revealing letter written by Eugene Field that has come within my ken. Through it the reader is taken into the confidence which existed between the writer and his constant friend—a confidence further extended in the following letter which reports progress in the attainment of "the house":

DEAR MR. GRAY: Our deal was closed last evening (Monday). It would have been closed Saturday but for a clerical error, which put the whole matter off over Sunday. I have told the cashier at the Record office to pay you One Hundred Dollars a month, beginning in May. She will communicate with you as to how you desire remittances made. Julia and I feel deeply obligated to you for your prompt and cordial action, without which we might have been seriously embarrassed. The plans we have at present are to introduce gas into the house, to add two rooms, and to have a bath-room and laundry tubs put in. We shall do nothing about a heating apparatus until late in the summer. This will enable us not to borrow any money until August; by that time we shall be able to see our way clearer than we do now. Mr. Stone wants to help us somewhat, and he has told us to send the bill for house-painting to him. We shall be compelled to go to the expense of a new cooking range, and I have enough balance at the Record office to pay for that. I am hoping that we shall be able to move into the new quarters by May 1. The children are well. Pinny comes home next Monday for a fortnight's vacation, and we shall be glad to see him. I had a letter from Carter, alias Rolling-pin, the other day, and he renews his entreaty for me to join him in his publication venture in St. Louis—but that is wholly impossible. You have probably seen by the newspapers how savagely the Republicans swept the board in Chicago at the elections; the affair was practically unanimous. I can't see that there is much left of the party which Emory Storrs once designated "an organized appetite." We all unite in affectionate remembrances to you and Miss Eva. We shall be able and glad this summer to have you with us for a while.

Affectionately yours,

EUGENE FIELD. 1033 Evanston Ave., Station X, Chicago, April 9th, 1895.

"The house" upon which Field devoted so much thought at this time, and every dollar he could raise by forestalling his income, was a commodious, old-fashioned building in Buena Park, which stood well back from Clarendon Avenue in a grove of native oaks within sight of Lake Michigan. Its yard was mostly a sand waste, which needed a liberal top dressing of black earth to produce the semblance to a lawn. The remodelling of the house and the process of converting sand into a green sward with flower-beds and a kitchen garden furnished light employment and a never-failing subject for quips and bucolic absurdities to its owner, to whom land ownership seemed to give a new grip on life. The story of the remaking of this building into a comfortable modern house and of converting the sandy soil surrounding it into a land of horticulture promise is told by Field in whimsical style in "The House," a work unfinished at the time of his death. The first instalment of this story appeared in "Sharps and Flats" on May 15th. Eighteen chapters followed on successive days without a break. By August 15th, when the last instalment was printed, a vexatious series of disappointments had robbed Field's humor of its natural buoyancy. He therefore dropped the story in about the same unfinished stage as he found his new home when his impatience finally took possession of it before the carpenters and painters were all out. On May 14th he wrote to his aged Maecenas:

DEAR MR. GRAY: I returned from my St. Joseph's trip last Saturday and found your draft awaiting me here. The men have begun to push work on the house, and it is expected that the plastering will be done this week. I have no doubt that we shall be able to move into our new home the first of June, although the place may not be in complete trim at that time. I cannot tell you how pleasurably I anticipate life in the house which I can call a permanent home. I expect to do better work now than ever before. And I want you to understand that Julia and I keenly appreciate that but for you the important move we have made could hardly have been undertaken. We are hoping that you will run up here for a day or two early in June. Our love to you and Miss Eva. Affectionately yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

The next and last letter which I shall quote from this interesting correspondence has the unique distinction of being the only one from him of all that passed between them that is not in Field's own chirography. In inditing this, he substituted the serviceable typewriter for the pen, that had been his companion for so many years, and that had served him "so diligently," as he so beautifully acknowledged in the apostrophe to it addressed to his brother Roswell. It bears date July 2d, and testifies to the writer's failure to realize the bright anticipation of getting into his new home during the early days of the leafy month of June:

Chicago, July 3d, 1895.

DEAR MR GRAY: For the last two weeks I have been deferring writing to you, hoping from day to day that I would be able to announce our removal into the new house, but it seems as though the Fates are conspired against us. First it was one thing to delay our removal, then it was another, and finally everything. Here it is the first of the month, and we are still in our rented quarters. We intended to begin moving yesterday, and up to the very last moment on Saturday hoped to be able to do so, but the painters, and carpenters, and the plumbers combined against us, and we are in the spot where you saw us when last in Chicago.

From this beginning you will gather that the new house is in rather a sad plight. It is not altogether so. The paper-hangers and painters are nearly through with the second-story, and have done considerable work down-stairs. I suppose that if everything was ready for them they could get through in two days. The work that remains for the carpenters and for the plumbers to do is of a pottering character, just enough and of just such a character as to be slow, and, consequently, exasperating. I presume to say that we will be in the house at the end of this week, but another week must elapse before we are in anything like order. Meanwhile the painters have nearly completed painting the outside of the building, which, with its new fresh coat of white paint and its green blinds is going to look quite stunning, we think.

The front lawn has engaged my attention pretty much all of the time since you were here, and I have brought it around into a state of subjection, although I am told—and I think—that it will not be at its best before another year. The neighbors have been very kind, and have provided me with plants and flowers, and other green growing things, and the consequence is that I have a fine lot of flowers, roses, nasturtiums, and poppies. I have devoted about five square feet of ground to pop-corn, and, not knowing anything about the habits of the creature, planted it in a bunch. I have now enough pop-corn to do the whole State of Illinois for the next two years. It grows so fast that I seem almost to hear it grow. I also have thirty hills of potatoes which I planted myself. I dug them up every day to see how they were getting along. The neighbors made all sorts of fun, and said the potatoes would not live. They are not only living, but flourishing. All that I fear now is that the potato-bug will put in an appearance, and thus blast my first and fondest agricultural hope.

You see I am so devoted to the garden and to the lawn that I am likely to neglect telling you what you are probably most anxious to know about—the interior of the house. We have extended a porch from the front side around to the north side of the house, so that when you come here next (and I hope that will be soon), you will be able to step from your room out through a French window upon the north side to the porch. This change we did not have in view when you were here, but our friends tell us it is a vast improvement upon the original plan. The front door is a very imposing affair. It is of solid oak, very tasteful in design and very imposing in appearance. We are going to hang our best brass knocker upon it, and this ornamentation will enhance its beauty. The front hall is completed, and so is the parlor, through which you go to enter your room. The large front room on the ground floor, which we call the library, is now in the hands of the cabinetmaker. By this you are to understand that we are having the oak trimming stained very dark so as to match the permanent book-cases which the cabinetmaker has constructed for us, and which will be set up this week. These book-cases extend around three sides of the room, and will be capable of containing about twelve hundred books. They are very handsome pieces of furniture. We had them constructed in such a way as to be able to add glass doors when we think we can afford to do so. We shall not put any mantel either in the library or in Julia's room until the financial outlook clears, for, as you surmised when you were here, the funds with which you provided us are not sufficient to do all that we want to do.

The roof to the old house will have to be patched up some. Then I think we ought to have a roadway constructed from the front gate to the house. The road at present is pretty nearly impassable. My idea is that we ought to have a road-bed of coal cinders rolled down and covered with fine gravel. This kind of road in private grounds is, I understand, practically everlasting. Then, we have got to have a front gate, the old affair having gone all to pieces. It is not at all necessary to have a new fence for some time to come. I am told that a roadway such as we want will cost $50. This means, I suppose, $75. Mr. Stone is going to pay for the exterior painting of the house. I suppose we ought to have the shingle roof painted. One coat would be sufficient, and would involve a cost of $35 at the outside.

So far we have done pretty well, I think, with the means at our disposal. What we have put into the house is of a good and durable quality. Of course I understand, and so do you, that if we had the same work to do over again doubtless we could do it cheaper, if not better. There are also changes which have suggested themselves as we went along which we did not deem it wise to make, inasmuch as they were not absolutely necessary, and would have involved an expenditure which we did not feel justified in making.

I am hoping that you will find it possible to spend your birthday with us. If you will send me the date of the auspicious anniversary I will gladly send passes for you and Miss Eva to come, and we shall try to make your stay pleasant. You asked me in your letter what plans I had for a summer trip. I have no plans at all. It is so cool here that I do not feel disposed to go away from home. Then, again, I am so much interested in the new premises that I find in that interest another reason for staying home.

It has occurred to me that it might be both wise for you and Miss Eva to make this point a base for operations this summer. Why can't you both come here, and from here make such excursions into Wisconsin and Michigan as may suggest themselves to you from week to week as pleasant and profitable. It is possible that either Julia or I, or maybe both of us, may be able to join some of these little desultory trips with you.

Roswell has been called to an editorial position on the Times-Herald, and he will begin work on the first of August, arriving here, however, about the middle of July, and devoting a fortnight to getting settled in quarters of some kind or another, and perhaps taking a few days' rest in Wisconsin. So you see, if you can arrange to be here on your birthday we shall all have a nice family visit together.

Trotty has been in Kansas City nearly three months. She will be home in a day or two accompanied by her Aunt Etta, who comes ahead of Roswell to hunt up quarters.

The children are well. Julia looks well, but I think she is pretty well fagged out, having worried a good deal about the house, and being unaccustomed to the contrary ways of workmen. I am feeling better now than I have felt for five years, which fact I impute very largely to the out-of-door exercise which I am taking in the garden and upon the bicycle. I am doing good work and am feeling generally encouraged.

Give my love to Miss Eva, and as for yourself, be assured always that we appreciate your very great kindness, and that we are very grateful for it. Let us hear from you very soon, and be sure to get your affairs in such condition that you can be here upon your birthday.

Always affectionately yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

A postscript by pen informed Mr. Gray that the Record office held $200 for him on account, for which a draft would be sent as soon as the cashier returned from a brief vacation.

During the years here passing in review Field entered upon a new role—that of entertaining distinguished visitors for the Record. While Mr. Stone was editor of the Morning News this important incident of metropolitan journalism fell to his lot, and with Field as his first lieutenant, he enjoyed it. Mr. Lawson, when he assumed the duties of editorship in addition to the details of publishing, had no time to waste on such social amenities, and thereafter delegated to Field the task of representing the Record on all such occasions. As Field exercised his own choice of occasions, as well as guests, the task was entirely congenial to his nature, and as Mr. Lawson paid the bills, fully within the narrow limits of his purse. One of the most memorable of the entertainments that followed from this happy arrangement was a luncheon at the Union League Club, in honor of Edward Everett Hale. The company invited to meet the liberal divine consisted of a few Saints, more Sinners, and a fair proportion of the daughters of Eve. Field prepared the menu with infinite care, and to the carnal eye it read like a dinner fit for the gods. But in reality it consisted of typical New England dishes, in honor of our New England guest, masquerading in the gay and frivolous lingo of the French capital. Codfish-balls, with huge rashers of bacon, boiled corned beef and cabbage, pork and beans, with slices of soggy Boston brown-bread, corn-bread and doughnuts, the whole topped off with apple-pie and cheese, were served with difficult gravity by the waiters to an appreciative company. The bill promised some rare and appropriate wine for each course, and the table flashed with the club's full equipment of cut glass for each plate. But alas and alack-a-day! when the waiters came to serve the choicest vintages from the correctly labelled bottles, they gave forth nothing but Waukesha spring water. Not even "lemonade of a watery grade" did we have to wash down our luncheon, where every dish was seasoned to the taste of a salted codfish. But we had all the water we could drink, and before we were through we needed it. Sol Smith Russell was among the guests that day, and he and Field gave imitations of each other, which left the company in doubt as to which was the original.

It was on an occasion somewhat similar to this, given in the early winter, that Field perpetrated one of his most characteristic jokes, with the assistance of Mr. Stone, by this time manager of the Associated Press. The latter, at no little trouble, had provided as luscious a dessert of strawberries as the tooth of epicure ever watered over. They were the first of the season, and fragrant with the fragrance that has given the berry premiership in the estimation of others besides Isaac Walton. While everybody was proving that the berries tasted even better than they looked, and exclaiming over the treat, Field was observed to push his saucer out of range of temptation. At last Stone remarked Field's action, and asked: "What's the matter, Gene, don't you like strawberries?"

"Like them?" said Field; "I fairly adore strawberries! They are the only fruit I prefer to pie."

"Then why don't you eat yours?" queried Stone.

"B-because," answered Field, with a deep quaver in his voice, "b-because I'm afraid it would s-s-spoil my appetite for p-prunes."

Through these years Field was also the central figure in the entertainments of the Fellowship Club, and contributed more to the reputation these attained for wit and mirth-provoking scenes than all other participators combined. But he had begun to weary of the somewhat forced play of such gatherings, and found more pleasure watching the children romping in the Waller lot, or pottering about and overseeing the planting in his own new front yard. He had arrived at the time when he wanted to get away from the city and into the country as far as the engagements of his profession would permit. This spirit is dominant in these lines to his friend Louis Auer:

_The August days are very hot, the vengeance of the sky Has sapped the groves' vitality and browned the meadows dry; Creation droops, and languishes, one cannot sleep or eat— Dead is the city market-place, and dead the city street! It is the noontime of the year, when men should seek repose Where rustic lakes go rippling and the water-lily grows; Come, let us swerve a season from the dusty urban track, And off with Louis Auer to his Lake Pewaukee shack!

Upon a slight declivity that quiet refuge lies, Where stately forest-trees observe the hot of cloudy skies! The shack is back a goodly distance from the mighty lake Whose waters on the pebbly beach with pretty music break; Boats go a-sailing to and fro, and fishermen are there With schemes to tempt the pike or bass or pickerel from their lair— Oh with sailing, shooting, fishing, you can fancy there's no lack Of fun with Louis Auer at his Lake Pewaukee shack.

The shack is wide and rangey, with bunks built up around, While on the walls the trophies of the flood and field abound; The horns of elk and moose, the skins of foxes, beavers, mink, Keep glossy guard above the horde that gaily eat and drink; It's oh, the famous yarns we tell and famous yarns we hear, And we taste the grateful viands or we quaff the foaming beer; And many a lively song we sing and many a joke we crack When we're guests of Louis Auer at his Lake Pewaukee shack.

No wonder that too swiftly speed the happy hours away In the company of Silverman and Underwood and Shea; Of Yenowine, McNaughten, Kipp, Peck, Lush, and General Falk— Eight noble men in action, but nobler yet in talk! These are the genial spirits to be met with in that spot. Where are winters never chilly and summers never hot! And a fellow having been there always hankers to get back With those friends of Louis Auer's in that Lake Pewaukee shack.

To this o'ercrowded city for the nonce let's say goodby, And northward to the lake of Pewaukee let us hie! To-night we'll lay us down to dreams of calm and cool delight, Where owls and dogs and Kipp make solemn music all the night; But with our fill of satisfying, big voluptuous cakes, Such only as that prince of cooks friend Louis Auer makes, We'll sleep and dream sweet dreams despite that roaring pack, So come, let's off with Auer to his Lake Pewaukee shack._



CHAPTER XI

LAST DAYS

At last (July, 1895) Field was in his own house, provided, as he said, with all the modern conveniences, including an ample veranda and a genial mortgage. About it were the oaks, in whose branches the birds had built their nests before Chicago was a frontier post. He could sit upon the "front stoop" and look across vacant lots to where Lake Michigan beat upon the sandy shore with ceaseless rhythm. Inside, the house was roomy and cheery with God's own sunlight pouring in through generous windows. Reversing the usual order of things in this climate of the southwest wind, the porch was on the northeast exposure of the house. The best room in it was the library, and here, for the first time in his career, Field had the opportunity to provide shelf-room for his books and cabinets for his curios. An artist would have said that their arrangement was crude and ineffective; but from the collector's point of view the arrangement could scarcely have been bettered. Everything seemed to have settled in its appropriate niche, according to its value in the collector's eye, irrespective of its value in the dealer's catalogue. Of his collection before it was moved from the house on Evanston Avenue, adjoining the Waller lot, his friend Julian Ralph wrote:

"He had cabinets and closets filled with the wreckage of England, New England, Holland, and Louisiana; walls littered with mugs, and prints, and pictures, plates, and warming-pans; shelves crowded with such things, and mantel-pieces likewise loaded, through two stories of his house. All were curios of value, or else beauty, for he was no ignoramus in his madness. His den above stairs, where he sat surrounded by a great and valuable collection of first editions and other prized books, was part of the museum. There hung the axe Mr. Gladstone gave him at Hawarden, and the shears that Charles A. Dana used during a quarter of a century. These two prizes he cherished most. He had been to Mr. Dana and begged the shears, receiving the promise that he should have them left to him in Mr. Dana's will. He waited five years, grew impatient, past endurance, and then came on to New York and got the shears from Paul Dana."

To his new home, which he christened "The Sabine Farm," were moved all the accumulated treasures of his mania for curiosities and antiques. "I do not think he thought much of art," wrote Edward Everett Hale in his introduction to "A Little Book of Profitable Tales"; and the motley, albeit fascinating, aggregation of rare and outlandish chattels in Eugene Field's house justified that conclusion. Of what the world calls art, whether the creation of the brush, the chisel, the loom, or the potter's oven, he had the most rudimentary conception. His eye was ever alert for things queer, rare, and "out of print." Of these he was a connoisseur beyond compare, a collector without a peer. He valued prints, not for their beauty or the art of the engraver, but for some peculiarity in the plate, or because of the difficulties overcome in their "comprehension." He knew all that was to be known of the delightful art of the binder, but his most cherished specimen would always be one where a master had made some slip in tooling. For oddities and rarities in all the range of the collector's fever, from books and prints to pewter mugs and rag dolls, his mania was omnivorous and catholic. And strange as it may seem, with his mania was mingled a shrewd appreciation of the commercial side of it all. This is what Mr. Ralph means when he says Field was no ignoramus in his madness.

Therefore it is not to be wondered at that his collection of strange and fantastic, odd and curious, things filled his library and overflowed and clustered every nook and corner of the Sabine Farm. Here was a "thumb" Bible, there the smallest dictionary in the world. In one corner was stacked a freakish lot of canes—some bought because they were freaks, some with a story behind their acquisition, and more presented to him because Field let it be known that he had a penchant for canes—which, by the way, he never carried. In one room there was a shelf of empty bottles of every conceivable shape, size, and "previous condition of servitude"; in another was a perfect menagerie of mechanical toy animals. As he could not decide which he liked best, hideous pewter mugs or delicate china dishes, he "annexed" them indiscriminately, and stored them cheek by jowl, much to the annoyance of his more orderly wife. The old New England pie-plate was a dearer article of vertu to him than the most fragile vase, unless the latter was a rare specimen of a forgotten art. He had a genuine affection for clocks of high and low degree. He loved them for their friendly faces, and endowed them with personal idiosyncrasies, according to their tickings, by which he distinguished them. And so the Sabine Farm had old-fashioned clocks and new-fangled clocks in the halls and bedrooms, on the stairs and mantels, in the cellars beneath and in the garret above—all ticking merrily or sedately, as became their respective makes and natures. But keeping time? Never!

Of books there was no end. Books he had inherited, books he had bought with money pinched from household expenses, and presentation books by the score. All were jumbled together in a confusion that delighted him, but which would have been the despair of an orderly mind. His rare and well-nigh complete collection of books on Horace and of editions of the poet had the place of honor in his library, with the rest nowhere in particular and everywhere in general. Hundreds of his books bear the autographs of their respective authors, while the walls of the house were covered with autograph letters from many of the celebrities and not a few of the notorieties of the world. Even the nonentities found lodgement there. Such another collection as Field's is not to be met with under any roof in this country; nor could its like be duplicated anywhere, because it reflects the man in all his personal contradictions and predispositions. It is queer and sui generis—but mostly "queer"—which word to him always conveyed a sense of inimitable incongruity.

When Field returned from Holland he wore on his third finger a hideous silver ring, that looked like pewter, in which shone, but did not sparkle, a huge green crystal. It was a gorgeous travesty on an emerald. Beauty it had none, nor even quaintness of design. It was just plain ugly; but he had become attached to it because it was conspicuous and had some association with Dutch life connected with it. From this it may be inferred that Field's taste in jewelry was barbaric; but, happily for Mrs. Field, it was a taste he seldom indulged.

Besides the pleasure of sitting down amid the spoils of two continents and of two decades of collecting, Field fairly revelled in the, to him, novel sensation of land proprietorship. He did not miss or feel the drain of the weekly deductions from his salary that went to the reduction of his building debt. When that had been arranged for between the Record office and Mr. Gray, Field took no more account of it. It came out of Mrs. Field's allowance. What was that to him? He only recognized the fact that he was his own landlord, and paid taxes, and was exempt from the payment of rent.



So enamoured was he of these novel sensations of the Sabine Farm that he found it hard to tear himself away from the communion with the trees, and birds, and bees, out of doors, and with books, and curios, and visitors indoors. Dearly did he love to show his treasures to his friends, who came, not single spies, but in troops, to warm his chairs and congratulate him upon the attainment of his heart's desire. Never did he appear to better advantage than here, except when outside under the trees, surrounded by groups of little children, to whom he discoursed on wonders in natural history more wonderful than all the amazing works of nature set down in their nature study-books. All the animals, and birds, and creeping things in his natural history could talk and sing, could romp and play, could eat and drink—not infrequently too much—and in every way were superior to their kind to be met with among the dry leaves of their school-books. He peopled the world with the trolls, elves, and nixies of fairy-land for his own and his neighbors' babes of all ages.

Is it any wonder that his trips down town became less frequent, that he preferred to do his work at home, and subsidized one of his sons to be his regular messenger to bear his copy to the office? Is it surprising that, along in August, 1895, we find him writing:

Yes, there is no doubt that these rains which we have had in such plenty for the last three days have interrupted and otherwise interfered with the sports of many people. Yet none of us should sulk or complain when he comes to consider how badly we needed the rain, and what a vast amount of good these refreshing down-pourings have done. Vegetation was in a bad, sad way; the trees had begun to have a withered look, and the grass was turning brown. What a change has been wrought by the grace of the rain! Nature smiles once more; the lawns are green, the trees are reviving; the roadsides are beautiful with the grasses, the ferns, and the wild flowers, among which insectivorous life makes cheery music. The rain has arrayed old Mother Earth in a bright new garb.

The month of September is close at hand; the conditions of its coming are favorable. There is fun ahead for all us sentimental people. A beautiful moon is waiting rather impatiently for the clouds to roll by; the moon is always at her best in the full summer-time.

How good it is to live in this beautiful world of ours; how varied and countless are the blessings bestowed upon us; how sweet is the beneficence of Nature; how dear is the companionship of humanity!

"The companionship of humanity!" Nothing could make up to him any narrowing of that. His friends became dearer to him than ever. He could send his copy down to the printer, but when his friends did not come out in sufficient numbers to Buena Park he made the long trip to town to meet them at luncheon or in the Saints' and Sinners' Corner at McClurg's. Here he held almost daily court, and mulled over the materials for "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac"—the opening chapter of which appeared in his "Sharps and Flats" on August 30th. Here he confided to a few that the grasshopper had "become a burden," by reason of the weariness of his long convalescence. Here he had those meetings with the Rev. Frank W. Gunsaulus which resulted in the frequent transfer of poems from the latter's pocket to the "Sharps and Flats" column, without initial or sign to intimate that they were other than Field's own vintage, only from a new press. Here, too, his whole bearing and conversation were so uniformly hopeful, hearty, and light-hearted, that they deceived all his associates into confidence that the new home had instilled new life into our friend's gaunt frame.

His column, too, reflected the genial, mellow spirit that played through all his speech and ways during the early autumn days of 1895. No other work that he had done so completely satisfied him as "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac." He was steeped in the lore of the cult. He had yielded to its fascinations while preserving the keenest appreciation of its whims and weaknesses. And so the story meandered on through September and October with an ever-increasing charm of mingled sentiment and sweet satire; and so it seemed as if it might meander on forever.