McClure\'s Magazine, January, 1896, Vol. VI. No. 2 written by Various

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And of all his visitors the most constant and appreciative were
children. These he never sent away without some bright word, and
he rarely sent them away at all. Nowhere could they find such an
entertaining playmate as he--one who would tell them such wonderful
stories and make up such funny rhymes for them on the spur of the
moment, and romp with them like one of themselves. It was in the
homely incidents of these visits, and the like intimacy with his own
children, that he found the subjects for his poems. He could voice the
feelings of a child, because he knew child life from always living it.

On his own children he bestowed pet names--"Pinney," "Daisy,"
"Googhy," "Posey," and "Trotty;" and they almost forgot that they
had others. His eldest daughter, for instance, now a lovely girl of
nineteen, has remained "Trotty" from her babyhood, and "Trotty" she
will always be. At her christening Field had an argument with his
wife about the name they should give her. Mrs. Field wished her to be
called Frances, to which Field objected on the ground that it would
be shortened into Frankie, which he disliked. Then other names were
suggested, and, after listening to this one and that one, Field
finally said: "You can christen her whatever you please, but I shall
call her Trotty." "Pinney" was named from the comic opera "Pinafore,"
which was in vogue at the time he was born; and "Daisy" got his name
from the song, popular when he was born: "Oh My! A'int He a Daisy?"

A devotion so unfailing in his relations with children would,
naturally, show itself in other relations. His devotion to his wife,
for example, was of the completest. In all the world she was the one
woman he loved, and he never wished to be away from her. In one of his
scrap-books, under her picture, are written these lines:

You are as fair and sweet and tender,
Dear brown-eyed little sweetheart mine!
As when, a callow youth and slender,
I asked to be your valentine.

Often she accompanied him on his readings. Last summer it happened
that they went together to St. Joe, Missouri, the home of Mrs. Field's
girlhood. On their arrival, Mrs. Field's friends took possession of
her and carried her off to a lunch-party, where it was arranged that
Mr. Field should join her later. But he, left alone, was swept by his
thoughts back to the time when, a youth of twenty-one, he had here
paid court to the woman now his wife, then a girl of sixteen; and
so affected was he by these memories that, instead of going to the
lunch-party, he took a carriage, and all alone drove to the places
which he and she had been wont to visit in the happy time of their
love-making, especially to a certain lover's lane where they had taken
many a walk together.

[Illustration: THE LAST PORTRAIT OF EUGENE FIELD.

From a copyrighted photograph by Place & Coover, Chicago; reproduced
by permission of the Etching Publishing Co., Chicago.]

The day before Field's death the mail brought a hundred dollars in
payment for a magazine article he had written. It was in small bills,
and there was quite a quantity of them. As he lay in bed, Field spread
them out on the covers, and then called Mrs. Field. As she came in she
said: "Why, what are you doing with all that money?"

Field, laughing, snatched the bills up and tucked them under the
pillow, saying: "You shan't have it, this is my money." After his
death, the bills, all crumpled up, were found still under his pillow.

It was a common happening in the "News" office, while Mr. Field still
did his work there, for some ragged, unwashed, woe-begone creature,
too much abashed to take the elevator, to come toiling up the stairs
and down the long passage into one of the editorial rooms, where he
would blurt out fearfully, sometimes half defiantly, but always as if
confident in the power of the name he spoke: "Is 'Gene Field here?"
Sometimes an overzealous office-boy would try to drive one of these
poor fellows away, and woe to that boy if Field found it out. "I knew
'Gene Field in Denver," or, "I worked with Field on the 'Kansas City
Times,'"--these were sufficient pass-words, and never failed to call
forth the cheery voice from Field's room: "That's all right, show him
in here; he's a friend of mine." And then, after a grip of the hand
and some talk over former experiences--which Field may or may not have
remembered, but always pretended to--the inevitable half dollar or
dollar was forthcoming, and another unfortunate went out into the
world blessing the name of a man who, whether he was orthodox or not
in his religious views, always acted up to the principle that it is
more blessed to give than to receive.

[Footnote H: NOTE.--See a "Conversation" between Eugene Field and
Hamlin Garland, in which Mr. Field tells the story of his literary
life, McCLURE'S MAGAZINE for August, 1893. Also a series of portraits
of Eugene Field in McCLURE'S MAGAZINE for September, 1893. Price
fifteen cents.]

POEMS OF CHILDHOOD, BY EUGENE FIELD.

The choicest literary expression of Eugene Field's intimacy with
the children is found in four volumes published by Messrs. Charles
Scribner's Sons--"A Little Book of Western Verse," "Second Book of
Verse," "With Trumpet and Drum," and "Love-Songs of Childhood." It
is only a few years since the earliest of these was published; but no
books are better known, and they hold in the hearts of their readers
the same fond place that their author held in the hearts of the
children whose thoughts and adventures he so aptly and tenderly
portrayed. By the kind permission of the publishers, we reproduce
here a few of the best known of the poems, adding pictures of
the particular child friends of Mr. Field who inspired them. The
selections are from the last two volumes--"With Trumpet and Drum"
and "Love-Songs of Childhood." The pictures are from Mr. Field's own
collection, which chanced to be in New York at the time of his death;
and the identifying phrases quoted under several of them were written
on the backs of the photographs by Mr. Field's own hand.

WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM.

With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It's this way and that way they circle and file--
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way, and after a while
They march straight into this heart of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!

Come on, little people, from cot and from hall--
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,
As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;
It will rock you away to the dreamland above--
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,
And jollier still is it bound to become
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum.

So come; though I see not _his_ dear little face
And hear not _his_ voice in this jubilant place,
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your play--
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine
Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!
And my heart it is lonely--so, little folk, come,
March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!

THE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOT.

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

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

Once on a time that beauteous maid,
Sweet little Sissy Knott,
Took out her pretty doll to walk
Within the Waller Lot.

While thus she fared, from Ravenswood
Came Injuns o'er the plain,
And seized upon that beauteous maid
And rent her doll in twain.

Oh, 'twas a piteous thing to hear
Her lamentations wild;
She tore her golden curls and cried:
"My child! My child! My child!"

Alas, what cared those Injun chiefs
How bitterly wailed she?
They never had been mothers,
And they could not hope to be!

"Have done with tears," they rudely quoth,
And then they bound her hands;
For they proposed to take her off
To distant border lands.

[Illustration: LUCY ALEXANDER KNOTT.--"HEROINE OF THE 'BALLAD OF THE
WALLER LOT'" (NOTE BY EUGENE FIELD ON PHOTOGRAPH).

From a photograph by Max Platz, Chicago.]

But, joy! from Mr. Eddy's barn
Doth Willie Clow behold
The sight that makes his hair rise up
And all his blood run cold.

He put his fingers in his mouth
And whistled long and clear,
And presently a goodly horde
Of cowboys did appear.

Cried Willie Clow: "My comrades bold,
Haste to the Waller Lot,
And rescue from that Injun band
Our charming Sissy Knott!
"Spare neither Injun buck nor squaw,
But smite them hide and hair!
Spare neither sex nor age nor size,
And no condition spare!"

Then sped that cowboy band away,
Full of revengeful wrath,
And Kendall Evans rode ahead
Upon a hickory lath.

And next came gallant Dady Field
And Willie's brother Kent,
The Eddy boys and Robbie James,
On murderous purpose bent.

For they were much beholden to
That maid--in sooth, the lot
Were very, very much in love
With charming Sissy Knott.

[Illustration: JAMES BRECKINRIDGE WALLER, JR.--"A 'WALLER LOT' COWBOY
OF RARE PROMISE" (NOTE BY EUGENE FIELD ON PHOTOGRAPH).

From a photograph by Gehrig & Windeatt, Chicago.]

What wonder? She was beauty's queen,
And good beyond compare;
Moreover, it was known she was
Her wealthy father's heir!

Now when the Injuns saw that band
They trembled with affright,
And yet they thought the cheapest thing
To do was stay and fight.

So sturdily they stood their ground,
Nor would their prisoner yield,
Despite the wrath of Willie Clow
And gallant Dady Field.

Oh, never fiercer battle raged
Upon the Waller Lot,
And never blood more freely flowed
Than flowed for Sissy Knott!

[Illustration: KENDALL EVANS.--"HE RODE A HICKORY LATH IN THE FAMOUS
BATTLE OF 'THE WALLER LOT'" (NOTE BY EUGENE FIELD ON PHOTOGRAPH).

From a photograph by Coover, Chicago.]

An Injun chief of monstrous size
Got Kendall Evans down,
And Robbie James was soon o'erthrown
By one of great renown.

And Dady Field was sorely done,
And Willie Clow was hurt,
And all that gallant cowboy band
Lay wallowing in the dirt.

But still they strove with might and main
Till all the Waller Lot
Was strewn with hair and gouts of gore--
All, all for Sissy Knott!

Then cried the maiden in despair:
"Alas, I sadly fear
The battle and my hopes are lost,
Unless some help appear!"

Lo, as she spoke, she saw afar
The rescuer looming up--
The pride of all Buena Park,
Clow's famous yellow pup!

[Illustration: WILLIAM AND KENT CLOW.--"TWO REDOUBTABLE HEROES OF 'THE
WALLER LOT'" (NOTE BY EUGENE FIELD ON PHOTOGRAPH).

From a photograph by D.R. Coover, Chicago.]

"Now, sick 'em, Don," the maiden cried,
"Now, sick 'em, Don!" cried she;
Obedient Don at once complied--
As ordered, so did he.

He sicked 'em all so passing well
That, overcome by fright,
The Indian horde gave up the fray
And safety sought in flight.

They ran and ran and ran and ran
O'er valley, plain, and hill;
And if they are not walking now,
Why, then, they're running still.

The cowboys rose up from the dust
With faces black and blue;
"Remember, beauteous maid," said they,
"We've bled and died for you!

"And though we suffer grievously,
We gladly hail the lot
That brings us toils and pains and wounds
For charming Sissy Knott!"

But Sissy Knott still wailed and wept,
And still her fate reviled;
For who could patch her dolly up--
Who, who could mend her child?

Then out her doting mother came,
And soothed her daughter then;
"Grieve not, my darling, I will sew
Your dolly up again!"

Joy soon succeeded unto grief,
And tears were soon dried up,
And dignities were heaped upon
Clow's noble yellow pup.

Him all that goodly company
Did as deliverer hail--
They tied a ribbon round his neck,
Another round his tail.

And every anniversary day
Upon the Waller Lot
They celebrate the victory won
For charming Sissy Knott.

And I, the poet of these folk,
Am ordered to compile
This truly famous history
In good old ballad style.

Which having done as to have earned
The sweet rewards of fame,
In what same style I did begin
I now shall end the same.

So let us sing: Long live the King,
Long live the Queen and Jack,
Long live the ten-spot and the ace,
And also all the pack!

THE ROCK-A-BY LADY.

The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby Street
Comes stealing; comes creeping;
The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet--
She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,
When she findeth you sleeping!

There is one little dream of a beautiful drum--
"Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;
There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,
And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come
Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,
And a trumpet that bloweth!

And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams
With laughter and singing;
And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,
And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,
And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,
The fairies go winging!

[Illustration: ROSWELL FRANCIS FIELD, EUGENE FIELD'S YOUNGEST SON
AND THE INSPIRER OF "THE ROCK-A-BY LADY," "BOOH,"
AND MANY OTHER POEMS IN THE VOLUME "LOVE-SONGS OF CHILDHOOD."

From a photograph by Stein, Chicago.]

Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?
They'll come to you sleeping;
So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,
For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby Street,
With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,
Comes stealing; comes creeping.

"BOOH!"

On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap,
And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap,
In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face,
And cautiously and quietly I move about the place;
Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view,
And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh!"

Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared,
And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared;
And then his under lip came out and farther out it came,
Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a "cruel shame"--
But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do
But laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh!"

He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then
In shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!"
And I--of course I do it; for, as his progenitor,
It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for!
And it is, oh, such fun! and I am sure that we shall rue
The time when we are both too old to play the game of "Booh!"

THE DUEL.

The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
'Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
_(I wasn't there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)_

The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!"
The calico cat replied "mee-ow!"
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
_(Now mind: I'm only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)_

[Illustration: ELIZABETH WINSLOW, TO WHOM THE POEM OF "THE DUEL" IS
DEDICATED.]

The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw--
In the awfullest way you ever saw--
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
_(Don't fancy I exaggerate--
I got my news from the Chinese plate!)_

Next morning, where the two had sat
They found no trace of dog or cat;
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away!
But the truth about the cat and pup
Is this: they ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that!
_(The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know.)_

[Illustration: IRVING WAY, JR., TO WHOM THE POEM OF "THE RIDE TO
BUMPVILLE" is DEDICATED.

From a photograph by Leonard, Topeka, Kansas.]

THE RIDE TO BUMPVILLE.

Play that my knee was a calico mare
Saddled and bridled for Bumpville;
Leap to the back of this steed, if you dare,
And gallop away to Bumpville!
I hope you'll be sure to sit fast in your seat,
For this calico mare is prodigiously fleet,
And many adventures you're likely to meet
As you journey along to Bumpville.

This calico mare both gallops and trots
While whisking you off to Bumpville;
She paces, she shies, and she stumbles, in spots,
In the tortuous road to Bumpville!
And sometimes this strangely mercurial steed
Will suddenly stop and refuse to proceed,
Which, all will admit, is vexatious indeed,
When one is en route to Bumpville!

She's scared of the cars when the engine goes "Toot!"
Down by the crossing at Bumpville;
You'd better look out for that treacherous brute
Bearing you off to Bumpville!
With a snort she rears up on her hindermost heels,
And executes jigs and Virginia reels--
Words fail to explain how embarrassed one feels
Dancing so wildly to Bumpville.
It's bumpytybump and it's jiggytyjog,
Journeying on to Bumpville;
It's over the hilltop and down through the bog
You ride on your way to Bumpville;
It's rattletybang over boulder and stump,
There are rivers to ford, there are fences to jump,
And the corduroy road it goes bumpytybump,
Mile after mile to Bumpville!

Perhaps you'll observe it's no easy thing
Making the journey to Bumpville,
So I think, on the whole, it were prudent to bring
An end to this ride to Bumpville;
For, though she has uttered no protest or plaint,
The calico mare must be blowing and faint--
What's more to the point, I'm blowed if I ain't!
So play we have got to Bumpville.

[Illustration: KATHERINE KOHLSAAT. "TO HER," WROTE MR. FIELD ON THE
PHOTOGRAPH, "THE HUSH-A-BY SONG ENTITLED 'SO, SO, ROCK-A-BY SO,' IS
DEDICATED."]

SO, SO, ROCK-A-BY SO!

So, so, rock-a-by so!
Off to the garden where dreamikins grow;
And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes,
And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek,
And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies
In a beautiful garden way up in the skies
Which you seek.
Now mind these three kisses wherever you go--
So, so, rock-a-by so!

There's one little fumfay who lives there, I know,
For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow;
I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes.
I send him this kiss on your rosyred cheek.
And here is a kiss for the dream that shall rise
When the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skies
Which you seek.
Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe--
So, so, rock-a-by so!

And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go,
Don't forget mother who loveth you so!
And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes,
And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek,
And here is her kiss for the dreamland that lies
Like a babe on the breast of those far-away skies
Which you seek--
The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow--
So, so, rock-a-by so!

[Illustration: PARK YENOWINE, "THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN," WROTE MR. FIELD
ON THE PHOTOGRAPH, "TO WHOM 'SEEIN' THINGS AT NIGHT' IS DEDICATED."

From a photograph by Stein, Milwaukee.]

SEEIN' THINGS.

I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice,
An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice!
I'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed,
For when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said,
Mother tells me "Happy dreams!" and takes away the light,
An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!

Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door,
Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor;
Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round
So softly an' so creepy-like they never make a sound!
Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white--
But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night!

Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street,
An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat,
I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row,
A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me--so!
Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep' a mite--
It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night!

Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to death!
Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath;
An' I am, oh! _so_ sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then
I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again!
Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right
When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night!

An' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin,
I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within;
An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at 's big an' nice;
I want to--but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice!
No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight
Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night!

[Illustration: THE SABINE WOMEN. FROM A PAINTING BY DAVID.

The legend of the Sabine women is familiar. In the early days of Rome,
Romulus, the city's founder and first king, finding his subjects much
lacking in wives, invited the Sabines, a neighboring people, into the
city for a feast and games; and in the midst of the sport, he and his
followers seized the Sabine mothers and daughters by force of arms,
and married them out of hand. David's picture represents the seizure.
Classical subjects were especially preferred by David and his school.]

A CENTURY OF PAINTING.

NOTES BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL.--THE ART OF FRANCE IN THE BEGINNING
OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.--DAVID AND HIS FOLLOWERS.

BY WILL H. LOW.

When the potter's daughter of remote antiquity first drew the incised
line around her lover's shadow cast upon the wall by the accomplice
sun, art had its birth. Before that time primitive man had
endeavored--with who knows what desire to leave behind him some trace
of his passage upon earth--to make upon bones rude tracings of
his surroundings. The proof of the universality of art is in these
manifestations, of which the logical outcome was the complete and
splendid art of Greece. Through the sequence of Byzantine art we
come to Giotto, who, a shepherd's son under the skies of Italy, was
reinspired at the source of nature, and became the first painter as
we to-day know painting. From Giotto descends in direct line the great
family of artists who, in the service of the spiritual and temporal
sovereigns of the earth, shed illustration upon their craft and
undying lustre on their names until the old order, changing, giving
way to the new, enfranchised art in the great upheaval of the latter
part of the eighteenth century.

It is well, in order to understand the position in which this great
revolution left art, to briefly consider the conditions preceding
it. Painting, up to the end of the seventeenth century, had been
essentially the handmaiden of religion; and religion in its turn had
been so closely allied to the state that, when declining faith let
down the barriers, art took for the first time its place among the
liberal professions whose first duty is to find in the necessities
of mankind a reason for their existence. Small wonder, then, that,
accustomed to be fostered and encouraged, to be held aloof from the
material necessity of earning their daily bread, the artists of this
period sought protection from the only class which in those days
had the leisure to appreciate or the fortune to encourage them. The
people, the "general public," as we say to-day, did not exist, except
as a mass of patient workers in the first part, as a clamorous rabble
demanding its rights in the latter part, of the century. Hence the
patronage of art, its very existence, depended on the pleasure of the
nobility, and naturally enough its themes were measured according to
the tastes of its patrons. Much that was charming was produced, but
never before did art portray its epoch with such great limitations.
The persistent blindness to the signs and portents gathering thick
about them which characterized the higher classes of the time, may be
felt in its art; of the great outside world, of the hungry masses so
soon to rise in rebellion, nothing is seen. One may walk through the
palaces at Versailles, may search through the pictures of the epoch in
the Louvre, or linger at Sans Souci in Potsdam--where Frederick filled
his house with sculptured duchesses in classical costume playing
at Diana, and covered his walls with Watteaus and his ceilings with
decorations by Pesne, a less worthy Frenchman--and remain in complete
ignorance of hungry Jacques, who, with pike-staff and guillotine, was
so soon to change all that and usher in the period of the Revolution,
Before the evil day dawned for the gilded gentry of France, however,
the British colonies in America, influenced by the teachings of the
precursors of the French Revolution, and aided by their isolation,
were to establish their independence.

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