the stars a slumber story

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THE STARS:A Slumber StoryBy EUGENE FIELD

NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY156 Fifth Avenue, New York : MCMl


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fHF LIBRARY OFTwo Com id HeoeivfoNOV. 13 1901COFVBIOHT 6HTRY

Oi.MSS Cl XXc No.COFT J.

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CONTENTS

The Child-Love of Eugene Field . , iThe Stars ...... iEugene Field, a Sketch . . . -53


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The CHILD-LOVEOF EUGENE FIELD


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The CHILD-LOVE ofEUGENE FIELDAn AppreciationAS the children's poet, EugeneField will long live in litera-

ture and in the public heart. What heaccomplished in the field of humanachievement as a journalist, as poet andromancer, is as naught compared tohis undying fame as the noblest bardof childhood. I knew him during aperiod of fifteen years, in Denver, inKansas City, and in Chicagoa periodin which he expressed in printed wordsthose marvellous songs of childhoodwhich found genesis in his kindly heartand active mind.He seems to have been the one poet

in all modern American literature to[ vii ]


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EUGENE FIELD:have discovered childhood and to un-fold its v^^ondrous revelations. No mannor woman who has passed throughThe Struggle can read the lullabies andthe child-songs of Eugene Field andnot realize that he kindles afresh thespark of child-life, and gives it aneternal glow of gentleness, of tender-ness, and of love.He was a Homer to the children.

He revelled in their pleasures. Histender strains in praise of childhoodwere but the outbursts of his ownboyish heart. He himself was a boy,and all men and women who calledhim friend were his boy and girl friendsand whilom playmates. He once said:

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1^h e Children's Poet"I like boy life. I like the buoy-

ancy of youth and its freshness; thepleasures of life that come to a boy inthe country. It is a God's pity everyyoung child cannot get a taste of countrylife at some time."He always lived in the closest and

fondest intimacy with the children, andwas thus enabled to voice childish sen-timent and feeling. It is trueand inaccordance with his own confessionhe did not love all children. He triedto analyze his feelings with respect tothem, and he loved them personallyonly in so far as he could make pets ofthem. And few there were, whetherthey came to him in silks or in cottons,

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EUGENE FIELD:who were not his pets. In his homelife he called about him children of allages and all conditions. He loved tohave it so, and with them and amongthem he easily made himself a childagain, and joined them in their games.He loved the things that children love.He once wrote : ** I believe in ghosts,in witches, and in fairies, and I adoredolls." It is known that during hislifetime he bought hundreds of dolls,and once, when making generous pur-chases at a toy shop, he made excusesthus: "Oh, when little girls come tosee me I can give them a dolly to takehome." That illustrates his characterbetter than the words of others. He

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The Children''s Poetwas kind-hearted to a fault, and hissympathy was broad and deep. Enter-ing a strange household, it seemed onlynatural for him to move about and seekthe children, and the youngsters wentto his lap as quickly and as joyously asto a garden swing.He loved the poor outcast waifs of

the street with the same tenderness be-stowed upon the children of his friendsand neighbors, and it is said of himthat on his wedding day he kept hisbride waiting at the church, while he,on his knees in the mud of the street,settled a dispute among a quartette ofragamuffins over a game of marbles.

While his songs of childhood remain[ xi ]


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EUGENE FIELD:a monument to his memory, other lineswhich fell occasionally from his facilepen add no small measure to the gentlesweetness that marked the kindly man.His letters to his own children aregenuine, honest, and human. Theybreathe a soft fragrance and a beautya something greater and broader anddeeper than the tender words of afather; between the lines one can feelthe throb of a mother's heart.

In his work as a poet of childhood,there is always manifest that rare andsubtle, sympathetic power to touch theheart and to moisten the eyethatwondrous simple touch that first makesthe reader think, and then to quiver,

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The Children's Poetand finally to aspirate a sweet, delicioussigh. And there lies the secret of hispower as a poet of childhood. Hisverses have a sympathy, a warmth, anda genuineness that cannot fail to openup the secret springs of memory andmake us live again the joyous days ofour happy youth. True children, asfresh and pure as the flowers of thehillside, caper and romp and coo andpray throughout his verse.

Only a master hand, influenced by agreat soul, could have written those twoparticular touches of child life, "LittleBoy Blue" and ** Wynken, Blynken, andNod." The former in its gentle realismtells of

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EUGENE FIELD:" The touch of a little handAnd the smile of a little face ! "

while the latter, riotous in romanticism,takes the children

" Sailing off in a wooden shoe ! "

It will be many years before ourmemories become dulled to the de-lights of "The Sugar-Plum Tree",which flourished in Shut-Eye Town,or to the fascinating charms of "TheNaughty Doll", whose fond mistressloved to

" Dress her up and curl her hairAnd feed her taffy candy !

Our hard, indifl^erent, mercenaryhearts, calloused by a false and too

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'Th e Children's Poetrapid civilization, must ache afresh at" Pitty-pat and Tippy-toe" as we re-call with flooded eyes those sweet dayslong ago, when we, too, found many achildish hurt to soothe and

" Many a little bump to kiss ! "And in ages yet to come, a million

mothers, some worn and tired, grownold before their time, will linger tear-fully and hug closely to their tremblinghearts

"A little sock of faded hue,A little lock of golden hair"and kiss the printed page containing"Christmas Treasures"; for next toGod's eternal Love comes mother love

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EUGENE FIELD:and father love, and he who loves thechildren cannot hate his God; and hewho writes immortal words of childrenand of love is near to that AlmightyThrob which makes the world go'round.

Good-night, Eugene, but not farewellAlthough Life's sun for thee hath set,

In hearts of millions long will dwellThy kindly light. We'll not forgetThe tender, gentle touchthe charm.The grace and pathos of thy pen ;

Good-night, sweet soul of Sabine farm,Belov'd of children and of men.

Will M. Clemens.New York, 1901.

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THE STARS:A SLUMBER STORT


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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryAVERY wondrous thing happenedthe other night; I will tell youabout it. Dady is a little boy whois hardly more than three years old.Every night when his mamma putshim to bed, she sits beside him andsings to him till he is fast asleep. Theother night Dady's mamma had tuckedhim up nice and snug in his bed, andhad heard him repeat his little prayer,when Dady said : ** What will you singabout to-night, mamma?""What would you like to have me

sing about?" asked mamma."Sing about the bears and lions,"

said Dady.Mamma laughed heartily. "Why

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryDady," said she, "what do I knowabout bears and lions? No, I will singa little hushaby about the stars. WhenI was a little girl my mamma used tosing it to me. Would you like tohear it?"

"Yes," said Dady."Then you must shut your eyes and

be very still," said mamma.So Dady closed his eyes, and wasvery quiet while his mamma sang thislittle lullaby:

Cradle SongThe twinkling stars, that stud the skies

Throughout the quiet night,Are only precious little eyesOf babies fair and bright

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryFor, when the babies are asleep,An angel comes and takes

Their little eyes to guard and keepUntil the morning breaks.

So, in the sky and on the earth.Those little eyes divine.

With quiet love and twinkling mirth,Through all the darkness shine.

The golden and majestic moonBeholds these baby eyes.

And, mother-like, she loves to croonHer softest lullabies.Her gentlest hushabies.

The tiny flow'rs the baby knewThroughout the noisy day.

Now ope their blossoms to the dewAnd, smiling, seem to say :" We know you, stars, serene and small.Up yonder in the skiesYou are no little stars at all

You're only baby eyes ! "[ 3 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryThe lambkins scamper to and froAnd chase the night away.

For they are full ofjoy to knowThe stars behold their play.

The wind goes dancing, free and light.O'er tree and hilltop high.And murmurs all the happy nightThe sweetest lullaby.The gentlest hushaby.

So let thy little eyelids closeLike flow'rs at set of sun.And tranquil be thy soul's repose,My precious weary one !

The still and melancholy nightIs envious of thine eyes.

And longs to see their glorious lightIn yonder azure skies.

The daisies wonder all the whileWhy all is dark above.And clamor for the radiant smileOf little orbs they love ;

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryAnd, lo ! an angel hovers nearTo bear thine eyes on high.

So sleep, my babe, if thou would'st hearThe music of the skySweet nature's hushaby.

Scarcely had Dady's mamma finishedthis song when the wondrous thing ofwhich we spoke a few moments agohappened. Dady opened his eyes to seethe lambkins playing in the meadows,when, lo ! at his side, where his mam-ma had been sitting but a momentbefore, there stood a beautiful angel,with the whitest wings and the sweetestsmile Dady ever saw. Dady was notfrightened the least bit.

" Shut your eyes, little Dady," said[ 5]


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THE STARS: A Slumber Storythe Angel, " for I want to put them upin the sky for stars."

" Oh, but it will hurt," said Dady."No, it will not hurt," said the

angel, and Dady believed the angel,because angels always tell the truth.Then Dady closed his eyes, and, will

you believe it? the angel put his handson Dady's eyes and took them rightout of Dady's head, and it never hurtDady at all. No, it felt rather nicethan otherwise, for Dady's body at oncefell into a sound sleep, while Dady'seyes became wider awake than ever be-fore, and could see very plainly thesmallest things in the world. Out ofthe window, away over the housetops,

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storyand up into the sky flew the angel withDady's eyes, and Dady was not fright-ened, because the angel was very kindand gentle.

** Will he really put us in the sky ?thought the eyes. " It certainly willseem very new and strange to lookdown on the world from away up there."

But before Dady's eyes knew whatwas being done with them, they wereput fast in the blue sky, right betweentwo pairs of eyes Dady thought he hadseen before.

" Whose eyes are you ? " asked Dady." Why, we are Susie's eyes," said the

little brown stars." And whose eyes are you ? " asked

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryDady, turning to the little sparklers onthe other side."We are Trotty's eyes," replied the

little blue eyes."Then I am not frightened," said

Dady." Oh, no," said the Susie eyes, " there

is nothing to be afraid of up here inthe soft, kindly sky. It is really verycharming."

" Don't you see how cool and pleas-ant it is ? " asked the Trotty eyes." Really this is much nicer than theclose, heated air down near the earth."

So they talked. And there werethousands and thousands of other littleeyes doing service as stars all around

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storythem. There were blue eyes and blackeyes, and brown eyes and hazel eyes,and among others there was a pair ofbeautiful little golden eyes which Dadyfell quite in love with. They wereLouisa's eyes, and they were very sweet,for Louisa herself was a very goodlittle girl.

" What is that music we hear ? " askedthe Louisa eyes.Dady listened, and surely enough he

heard the most beautiful music sweep-ing along through the air beneath.

** I wonder what it can be ?" queriedthe Trotty eyes. ** We never heardsuch sweet sounds before.""Oh, that is the song of the night

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryHe bids me lure her from her tree,And from her balmy placesAnd bear her swiftly back with me

Unto his fond embraces.So, swiftly o'er the mountains high.And through the forests gloomy,Unto the distant vale I flyTo win this blossom to me.

To-morrow evening shall I rideMore merrisome and faster

For I shall bear the blooming brideBack to my kingly master.

"What is it all about?" asked theDady eyes."I'm sure I don't know," said the

Louisa eyes." It is about a great, cold iceberg that

loves a rose," explained the Trotty eyes;"but the rose does not love the iceberg,

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THE STARS; A Slumber Storyso the night wind is going to stealthe rose and take her to the iceberg'spalace."The Dady eyes did not seem to under- I

stand all this sentiment, and were goingto make further inquiries, when theSusie eyes asked, ** Can you see the bigcity away down yonder?"

"Oh, yes," said the Trotty eyes,"and we can see the house where welive during the day.""And can we see our mamma?"

asked the Dady eyes."Certainly," replied the Trotty eyes.

"Look hard, and you will see her fastasleep in bed. See, she is smiling."

"I can see her," said an ugly old[ 12 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber Storyspook that came buzzing through theair; "and I know why she is smiling.Listen

There's a joyous smile on her features, whileThe moon through the lattice streams.And fancies roll through her somnolent soulAnd sweet are her fevered dreams

The dreamsWith which her slumber teems.

There are tomes of guile in her tranquil smileThat basks in the moon's caress

She dreams of a gown that's the talk of thetown

"That's easy enough to guessOh, yes.

She dreams of a new silk dress ! "

"For shame!" cried the star eyes."As if a mother ever could dream of

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storysuch things! No; when a mothersmiles in her sleep, she dreams of herlittle one."And for his abominable heresy, the

ugly old spook was condemned to marryan owl and live in the hollow of adead tree.

"Baabaa," bleated a little lamb inthe meadow. It had lost its way among \the high grass and flowers, and wasbleating for its mother.

"Poor little lambit has lost itsway," said the Louisa eyes."Can we not help it?" said the Susie 1

eyes. " Suppose we all shine as hardas ever we can, and then maybe it willsee its way to its mamma."

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THE STARS: A Slumber StorySo all the little star eyes shone with

all their might, and, startled by thesudden light, the mother sheep sprangfrom her slumbers and called to herlittle one. Then the little lamb heardher voice and hastened to her side. Itmade the star eyes very happy to knowthey had done the little lamb such akindly service. Then all the flock onthe meadow got together, and the wiseold mother sheep gathered around in acircle and watched the little lambs atplay in the midst of the circle. It wasa lively sight. On the meadov/ grewa daisy which the lambs loved verydearly because it was beautiful andgentle. Now, it happened that this

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storydaisy stood right in the centre of thecircle where the lambs played thatnight.

"Oh, come," said one little lamb,whose name was Kinky, "come, let ushave some fun with the daisy. Let ussee if we can leap over its head."

"For mercy's sake," cried the daisy,"do not strike me with your feet oryou will crush me!""Have no fears," said Kinky, "for \

we love you too much to harm you."Then the fun began. Kinky led the

race, and leaped over the daisy, and allthe rest of the lambs followed in one,two, three fashion, and so the sportcontinued until the little lambs were

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storyall worn out with play, and the mothersheep were nearly dead with laughter.And the daisy cried : *' Now, really, youmust rest awhile, and as for me, I mustopen my little mouths and take good,long drinks of cool dew, for I am verythirsty."

"Yes," said an old grandma sheep,"you little lambs should go to bed.Lie down on the green grass close toyour mothers while I sing you tosleep."They were very obedient little lambs.

They cuddled up to their big, warmmothers, and fell asleep to the song ofthe old grandma sheep, which song wassomething like this

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryA Hushaby

Ba-ba, baby sheep,Chill and sombre grows the night-Only stars from heaven's heightShed on us their golden light

Ba-ba, go to sleepGo to sleep, baby sheep !Ba-ba, baby sheep

Never mind the goblin's growlNever heed the hoodoo's howlLet the hippogriffin prowl

Ba-ba, mother'll keepWatch over baby sheep!

Ba-ba, baby sheepUp above, serene and far.Beams a tiny golden starListening to the ba-ba

I am singing to the sheep,As they rock the lambs to sleep.

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THE STARS : A Slumber Story"We can understand that song," said

the Dady eyes, "and we Hke it verymuch. On the whole, we think it isvery pleasant up here in the sky."

"Yes," said the Louisa eyes, "it ismuch better to be shining upon theworld up here than to be slumberingin our quiet cribs at home."Then a pair of the older eyes ex-

plained that if the children were goodall day on earth, their eyes would surelybe set in the sky for stars. Dady'seyes and Louisa's and Trotty's and allthe rest at once made a solemn de-termination that they always wouldbe good.

About this time the star eyes saw a[ 19 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber Storynumber of fleecy objects sailing alongthrough the sky in their direction."Thev must be swans," said the

Susie eyes." Oh, what lovely creatures ! " shouted

the star eyes in chorus.But no, they were simply clouds;

but they sailed along like majestic birdsof passage."Where are you going?" demandedthe Trotty eyes."Would you like to hear our song?"

inquired the clouds."Indeed, we would," answered the

star eyes in one voice."Then listen," said the clouds; "we

cannot stay long, for we are in great[ 20 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber Storyhaste, as you will hear from oursong."The star eyes paid close attention,

and the clouds, as they decreased theirspeed, joined in this pretty little song:

Song of the CloudsFar, far beyond yon Eastern steepsThere is an humble little cot,And in that homely, lonely spotA mother prays and weeps.

Be calm, dear one , the Father hearsThy softest plaint and faintest sigh.And He hath bless'd thy pray'rful cry

And sanctified thy tears.And He hath sent us clouds to bearThy mother's tears, in form of rain,Unto the distant desert plain.

To cool the desert air.[ 21 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryThe fainting youth will feel our breathUpon his bronzed and fevered face.And have new strength to leave that

placeThat arid haunt of death.The mother heart need not despairTo-morrow eve the son shall restUpon that mother's joyful breast,

For God hath heard her pray'r.So, gentle stars, stay not our flightA mother's tears, in form of rain.We bear unto that distant plain

Where faints a son to-night.The star eyes were much pleased

with this song, and they would haveasked the clouds to sing all the night,but that would have been very wrong.

** No, we must not detain them, forthey are sailing on an errand of kind-

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storyness and mercy," said a pair of theolder of the star eyes.Then the clouds flew swiftly on

their journey, in search of the weep-ing mother's wandering son, singing asthey went, and accompanied throughall their journey by the tenderest wishesof the little star eyes.

" Speed on, speed on, O dear clouds,"cried the star eyes, "and bear strengthto the distant traveller son that he maycome to the mother ere her heart break."

As you may easily imagine, thenight was now pretty well along. Themoon came up in the eastern horizon,looking very red and fretful at first, butas soon as she saw the star eyes waiting

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storyfor her, she became as smiling and com-placent as you please. Then the Dadyeyes saw that the moon was not, asmany foolish children believe, a hugegreen cheese, but a huge ball of firenot the kind of fire that burns, but asoft and luminous and perfectly harm- Iless fire into which a child might thrusthis hand without being singed."Aha," quoth the moon, cheerily,"you are all here, my pretty friends!"

"Welcome, dear moon," cried the ]star eyes ; " but why are you so lateto-night?"

" Oh, but I have had a dreadful time,"said the moon. "I have been all theway to China since I left you last night,

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storyand I have seen the most terrible sightough !And the moon shivered so mightily

that she came very near shaking all thelittle star eyes out of their places."What was this terrible sight?"

asked the star eyes, opening themselvesto their widest capacity in an excite-ment of expectancy."It was the *Fate of the PrincessMing,' as I call it," replied the moon,"for I have arranged the story in asong, which I will sing you if you wish."

"Oh, do sing it!" cried the stareyes in unison, " for we are very anxiousto hear it."Then the moon hemmed and hawed

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storyand cleared her throat and sang in verydulcet tones this sad, sad ballad:

The Princess MingThere was a prince by the name of TsingWho lived in the Chinese town of LungAnd fell in love with the Princess MingWho lived in the neighboring town of

Jung;'Twas a terrible thingFor Tsing and Ming,

As you'll allow, when you've heard me sing.Now it happened so that the town of Lung,Where lived the prince who longed to woo,

Went out to war with the town of Jung. With junks and swords and matchlocks,

too'Twas a terrible thingFor Tsing and Ming,

As you'll allow, when you've heard me sing.[ 26 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryMiss Ming's papa was eating riceOn yestermorn at half-past eight,And had carved a pie composed of mice,When the soldiers knocked at his palace

gate;They were led by Tsing,And they called for Ming,

Which all will allow was a terrible thing !Miss Ming's papa girt on his sword

" For this," quoth he, " I'll have his gore 1In vain the Princess Ming imploredIn vained she swooned on the palace floor

The Princess MingWho was wooed of TsingCould not prevail with the gruff old KingThe old King opened the palace gateAnd in marched Tsing with his soldiers

grim.And the King smote Tsing on his princely

pateStating this stern rebuke to him :

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THE STARS: A Slumber Story" It's a fatal thingFor you, Mr. Tsing,

To come a-courting the Princess Ming ! "The prince most keenly felt this slight,

But still more keenly the cut on hishead;

So, suddenly turning cold and white.He fell to the earth and lay there dead.Which act of the KingTo the handsome Tsing

Was a brutal shock to the Princess Ming.No sooner did the young prince dieThan Princess Ming from the palace

flew,

And jumped straight into the River Ji,With the dreadful purpose of dying,too

'Twas a natural thingFor the Princess Ming

To do for love of the handsome Tsing ![ 28 ]

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryAnd when she leaped in the River Ji,And gasped and choked till her face was blue,A crocodile fish came paddling byAnd greedily bit Miss Ming in two

The horrid old thingDevoured Miss Ming,Who had hoped to die for the love of Tsing.

When the King observed her life adjourned,By the crocodile's biting the girl in twain.Up to the ether his toes he turned.With a ghastly rent in his jugular vein ;So the poor old King,

And Tsing, and MingWere dead and gonewhat a terrible thing 1And as for the crocodile fish that had

Devoured Miss Ming in this off-hand way,He caught the dyspepsy so dreadful badThat he, too, died that very day !

So, now, with the King,And Tsing, and Ming,

And the crocodile dead, what more can I sing ?[ 29 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber Story"What a dreadful song ! " said the

Dady eyes. "I never heard anythinghalf so terrible ! "

"Poor princess," sighed the Trottyeyes, " how she must have loved theprince!

" I became so much interested in theaffair," explained the moon, "that Ioverstayed my time in China by halfan hour and that is why I am tardyto-night.""Can we go to China some time?"

asked the Dady eyes. "We want tosee the crocodile bite a princess in two ! "At this dreadful suggestion the other

star eyes shuddered and the moonfrowned severely.

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THE STARS: A Slumber Story"How can you want to see such a

dreadful sight?" asked the moon, re-proachfully. "No, you cannot go toChinaat least not while you are Babyeyes. For what would the sky do with-out you all the dark night, and howdreary the earth would be withoutyour kindly smiles and cheering rays?"The Dady eyes concluded that themoon was right, although they were

unwilling to concede that it would notbe an interesting experience to see acrocodile bite a beautiful princess in two."Now, little star eyes," said the

moon, "if you all will be very quietI will call to the elves to come out anddance upon the meadow."

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THE STARS : -A Slumber Story"Oh, what are elves?" eagerly in-

quired the Dady eyes."They are the tiniest little creatures

in the world," said the moon; "theyare little men and women who live inthe flowers and under the bark ofthe trees."

" Pray do call out the elves! " shoutedthe star eyes.The moon accordingly pitched hervoice in a tuneful key and sang thisinvocation :

An Elfin SummonsFrom the flow'rs and from the trees

Come, O tiny midnight elves,And, to music of the breeze,

Merrily disport yourselves.[ 32 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryHarnessing the glow-worm's wing,

Drive the glow-worm for your steed,Or with crickets dance and singOn the velvet, perfumed mead.Forth from pretty blue-bells creepTo coquette with starlight gleamSee, the lambkins are asleepAnd the daisies sleeping dream.

Hasten to engage yourselvesIn your frolics, midnight elves !

See, a toad with jewelled eyesComes and croaks his homely song

To the spider as she pliesHer deft spinning all night long ;

See the bat with rustling wingsDarting nervously above

Hear the cricket as she singsTo her little violet love.

All the goblins are asleepAnd no flimflam hovers near,

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THE STARS: A Slumber StorySo from out the posies creepWith your Elfin ladies dear ;

Merrily disport yourselves,Frisky little midnight elves !

Hardly had the moon finished thiscurious song when the meadow waspeopled with myriads of the tiniestlittle ladies and gentlemen the star eyesever had seen. Each of these peoplewas no larger than the smallest cambricneedle, yet all were so symmetricallyproportioned that they were to all in-tents human beings.

" If you were not star eyes you wouldnot see them at all," explained themoon.

Most of the elves came from the[ 34 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber Storyful little creature, with the merriest andtiniest blue eyes, the silkiest goldenhair, and the most musical voice imagi-nable. He wore a robe woven by sixsilver spiders; this robe was lined withdown from the skin of a maiden peach,and it was fastened with buttons of pearlno larger than gnats' eyes. Piccolo'shat was a violet leaf, and his shoes weremanufactured of the pelt of a baby dor-mouse. He was a very dainty littleobject.

" Let us awaken the lambkins," criedPiccolo, as he nimbly climbed a daisystalk and dexterously swung himself*upon the back of the little lamb thatwas named Kinky.

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryHis blithesome little subjects fol-

lowed his example."Ba-a-a," moaned Kinky, in his

sleep, for he dreamed he was beset byugly gnomes, who were shearing hisfleece."Wake up, little Kinky!" shouted

Piccolo in Kinky's ear.Kinky leaped to his feet, vastly be-

wildered." Ba-a-a ! " cried Kinky. "What is

all this hubbub?"" It is I, Piccolo," said Piccolo, in

assuring tones. "We have come toplay with you by moonlight."

"Yes, wake up, Kinky," chimed inthe daisy, "and let me see how fast

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THE STARS : ^ Slumber Storyyou can run with all those little elveson your back."

Kinky took very kindly to the idea.So he got his companions together, andproposed that they have a race to thebrook at the lower end of the meadowand back again. Each lambkin was tocarry three hundred elves on his back,and the lamb that ran first to thebrook and first home again was tohave a prize of three white cloverblossoms.

Well, it was great sport. Piccolo,his court, and more than two hundredof his faithful subjects rode Kinky, andthe other lambs carried their burdensquite as willingly. The daisy was the

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storytime-keeper, and when she said theword, away frisked the lambkins amidthe laughter of the elves, who clungvery tight to the fleece of their flyingsteeds. Gracious! how fast those lamb-kins did runit almost took the breathaway from the elves. Over moss andviolet and grass they sped, over cloverbloom and trailing vine and ripeningberry. "Ba-a-a," cried the lambkinsin chorus, while the elves screamed ex-citedly, and held on tighter than ever.The brook heard them coming.

"Mercy on us!what can be thematter?" wondered the brook, but thenext moment the lambkins and elveswere at the bank, and the brook saw

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storythat it was his little friends who weremaking all this clatter.

"Stay awhile and hear my song,"said the brook.

"Shall we?" inquired the lambkinsof each other.

"Yes, let us stay and hear it," quoththe elves.

So the lambkins tarried to hear thesong of the brook, which was some-what as follows

A Brook SongI'm hastening from the distant hillsWith swift and noisy flowing,

Nursed by a thousand tiny rills,I'm ever onward going.

The willows cannot stay my course.With all their pliant wooing

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THE ^TKK^' A Slumber StoryI sing and sing till I am hoarse,My prattling way pursuing.1 kiss the pebbles as I pass,And hear them say they love me;

I make obeisance to the grassThat kindly bends above me.So onward through the meads and dellsI hasten, never knowing

The secret motive that impels,Or whither I am going.

A little child comes often hereTo watch my quaint commotion.As I go tumbling, swift and clear,Down to the distant ocean

And as he plays upon my brink.So thoughtless like and merry.

And full of noisy song, I thinkThe child is like me, very.

Through all the years of youthful play.With ne'er a thought of sorrow,

We, prattling, speed upon our way,[41 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryUnmindful of the morrow ;

Aye, through these sunny meads and dellsWe gambol, never trowingThe solemn motive that impels,Or whither we are going.

And men come here to say to me :" Like you, with weird commotion,O little singing brooklet, weAre hastening to an ocean

Down to a vast and misty deep.With fleeting tears and laughter.We go, nor rest until we sleepIn that profound Hereafter.

What tides may bear our souls alongWhat monsters rise appalling

What distant shores may hear our songAnd answer to our calling ?Ah, who can say ! through meads and dellsWe wander, never knowingThe awful motive that impels.Or whither we are going ! "

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THE STARS: A Slumber Story" Fie, fie ! " cried the moon reproach-

fully ; "what a sorry song to sing thelittle folks when they want to be merry."

"Yes, indeed," sighed Kinky; "itmade me feel very sad.""And I," quoth Piccolo, "had al-

ready begun to weep.""It is quite right that little folks

should be blithesome and gay," con-tinued the moon, frowning upon thebrook, " but this mournful melody hascast a cloud over us all."

"Speaking of mournful things," saida toadstool which grew by the brook,"reminds me of the ballad of *TheBingo Bird and the Doodledoo.' I aman indifferent vocalist, but if you would

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryHe vowed he'd woo her to be his brideWith many a sleek and winsome word.

"Oh, doo ! oh, doo !" sang the doodledooTo the bingo bird in the yarrish yew.Now a churlish chit was the bingo bird,Though her plumes were plumes of car-

dinal hue.And she smithered a smirk whenever she

heardThe tedious yawp of the doodledoo;

For she loved, alas ! a subtile snaix,Which had a sting at the end of his tail

And lived in a tarn of sedge and brakesOn the murky brink of a gruesome swail."Oh, doo ! oh, doo !" moaned the doodledoo,As dimmer and danker each day he grew.Now, when this doodledoo beheldThe snaix go wooing the bingo bird,

With envious rancor his bosom swelledHis soul with bitter remorse was stirred.

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryHer keen eye lit on the gruesome brakes.From whence proceeded the hullaballoo

And, lo and behold ! 'twas the subtile snaix.Busy at work with the doodledoo.

Boo-hoo ! boo-hoo ! how the feathers flew,When the snaix imbrued with the doodledoo !They fought and scratched, and they bit and

bled.Dispensing gore and their vitals, too.

And never pausing till both were deadThe subtile snaix and the doodledoo !

And the bingo birdshe didn't mind.But giving her shoulders a careless shrug,

She went the way of her female kind.And straightway wedded the straddlebug

And there was nobody left to rueThe doom of the snaix and the doodledooUnless, mayhap, 'twas the I O yew."What silly verses!" exclaimed the

Trotty star eyes.[ 47 ]


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THE STARS: A Slumber Story"They do very well for a toadstool/*

quoth the moon; "and they repeat avery common experience, too. Butperhaps you are too young yet tounderstand the philosophy of even thetoadstool muse."

"I know a little love story," said theviolet; "please let me tell it to you."

The Violet's Love StoryHere died a robin in the spring,And, when he fluttered down to me,

I tried to bind his broken wing,And soothe his dying agony.

I loved the wounded little birdAnd, though my heart was full to break,

I loved in silencene'er a wordOf that dear, hopeless love I spake.

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THE STARS: A Slumber StoryI saw his old companions bringTheir funeral tributes to this dell

But, when they went, I stayed to singThe love I had not dared to tell.

So, while the little robin sleeps.The sorrowing violet bides above

And still she sings, as still she weeps,A requiem to her buried love."Come, come!" cried the lamb

Kinky ; " it is time for us to startback. Remember, the first of us homeis to be rewarded with three whiteclover blossoms ! "

Piccolo and the other elves secureda very tight hold on the fleece of theirlambkins and said they were ready.Then the solemn old toadstool gave

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storythe word, and away the fleet-footedracers whisked. It was a more ex-citing run than before. Lickety-split,helter-skelter flew the lambkins, andthe night winds had hard work keep-ing up. Kinky, with Piccolo and theelfin court on his back, was some dis-tance ahead of the others, and seemedsure of winning the race.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" cried theDady eyes, and Kinky seemed to beencouraged by the words, for he gavea tremendous bound forward, and

Dady was wide awake !" Why, I must have been dreaming ! "

said Dady.It was broad daylight, and mamma

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THE STARS: A Slumber Storycame in to dress him. He told herall about his dream.

" But it may not have been a dream,"said Dady's mamma; "you know theold song says the stars are only goodlittle children's eyes. Suppose you bea very good little child to-day, and seeif the angel doesn't come again to-nightand put your eyes away up in the skyfor two bright, pretty stars."

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EUGENE FIELD:A SKETCH


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EUGENE FIELD:A SketchBORN, SEPTEMBER a, 1850DIED, NOVEMBER 4, 1895

T^UGENE FIELD, journalist, hu-"^"^ morist, and poet, was the secondand oldest surviving son of RoswellMartin Field and Frances Reed Field,both natives of Windham County, Ver-mont. The elder Field was a distin-guished lawyer in St. Louis, and anaccomplished scholar. He was per-haps best known as one of the counselfor Dred Scott in the famous slaverycase.

While he was yet a little child of sixyears, Eugene's mother died and he was

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchplaced, with his younger brother, in thecare of his aunt, Miss Mary French, ofAmherst, Mass. He was fitted for col-lege by the Rev, James Tufts, and atseventeen years of age he entered Wil-liams College. Upon the death of hisfather in 1869, Prof. John W. Burgess,who was appointed the boy's guardian,placed him in Knox College, at Gales-burg, 111. He studied there two years,and afterward remained for some timeat the University of Missouri.

Francis Wilson, a life-long friend ofField, says of the father and mother ofthe poet : "He, very unfortunately, hadbut a fleeting, faint memory of hismother. She passed to the great be-

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchyond when he was but a child of a fewyears, but he drew a noble inspirationfrom his father, who was all in all tohim through boyhood, youth, and youngmanhood. Strange as it may seem, henever wrote a line in prose or balladdedicated to that father, but he lovedand revered him none the less."

Eugene Field's first attempt at author-ship was in an amateur way for news-papers in 1 871, when he was twenty-one and a sophomore at Knox College,Galesburg, 111. This early work was hispreparation for the tasks of his later life.

Dr. Henry Tyler assisted in Field'seducation at Knox College. "He madelife a burden for me," Dr. Tyler once

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EUGENE FIELD: A SketchComstock. They became " chums ' ' anddecided to travel together for a year inEurope. Before the journey was begun,young Field accepted an invitation tomake a few weeks' visit at the Com-stock home in St. Joseph. His friendhad five sisters of such surpassing fair-ness that they were known and areremembered as "the pretty Comstockgirls."The second of these young ladies,

Julia Sutherland Comstock, was thenonly 1 6 years of age, but Eugene fell inlove with her at once, and during hisbrief sojourn in St. Joseph he promptlyproposed and was accepted. Before thetwo had reached the Atlantic coast

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchyoung Comstock missed his travellingcompanion. Investigation showed thatField had returned to St. Joseph to bid hissw^eetheart another and a longer farew^ell.

His six months' tour of Europe wasone long holiday.

"I had a lovely time," he said once,in telling his experience to a friend. " Ijust swatted the money around. Justthink of it, a boy of 21, without fatheror mother, and with $60,000. It wasa lovely experience. I saw more thingsand did more things than are dreamedof in your philosophy, Horatio. I hadmoney. I paid it out for experienceit was plenty. Experience was lyingaround loose.'*

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchhe was Associate Editor of the Gazette.Then he returned to St. Louis as awriter of editorial paragraphs for theJournal. This was the beginning ofhis work in the line which he used tocall "my own." He wrote his firstverse for the Journal.Then he went to the Kansas City

Times as managing editor, and there hewrote the " Little Peach," which wasset to music and sung all over the coun-try. In 1 88 1 he went to the DenverTribune^ where he remained until hejoined the Chicago News staff in 1883.He went to The News under contractto write what he pleased, but he was tofurnish a column a day of it. His col-

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchumn, " Sharps and Flats," was widelyknown, and was continued until withina few days of his death.

His capacity for work was prodigious.A pen capable of making only the finesthair-strokes, when once set to travellingover a pad of paper, produced withintwo hours enough of his beautiful mi-croscopic writing to fill a long news-paper column of agate type. Usuallythe sheets went to the printers withouta blot or erasure. Yet, Field's best pro-ductions were by no means hastily done,A poem or a story developed in his mindfor days and sometimes for weeks ormonths before a word of it was written.

His wit and sarcasm in that famous[ 6i ]


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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketcheditorial column of "Sharps and Flats"attracted world-wide attention. He hadrepeated offers from Eastern newspapersand magazines. One great New Yorkdaily offered him his own price to joinits editorial staff. Always, at least twicea year, these tempting offers were madeto him, but he steadily refused them.He was in his element in the West, heused to say, and he meant to stay there.There was no element in the East, onlyan atmosphere. He was essentially aWestern man. His sympathies werewith the Western ways of life and hislikings were for them. He was fearfulof himself in the East. So whatever theattraction and inducements offered, he

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchinvariably refused to give up his Westernfreedom.While Field's clever newspaper feuille-

tons made him celebrated throughoutthe journalistic world, he was not knownto the general reading public until theappearance of his two books, "A LittleBook of Western Verse" and "A LittleBook of Profitable Tales."

Ill health compelled him to againvisit Europe in 1889, and for more thana year he travelled on the Continent.While abroad he saw much of literaryLondon, and received at its hands manykind attentions. There he renewed ac-quaintanceship with his talented class-mate of Williams College, Isaac Hen-

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchderson, the novelist. In London alsohe rummaged during many weeks forold books, old theatrical programmes,and curios of all sorts, finally departingheavily laden with spoil. Prominentamong his foreign treasures was thewell-worn axe of Mr. Gladstone, whopresented it to him and received thanksin the shape of an epigram.

While in England, he paid a visit tothe grave of John Wesley, and tells thisanecdote of his experiences there: "Asyou leave the spot you are swoopeddown upon by a hawk-nosed femalewho inveigles you into a sort of lodgeand worries you until you pay her twoshillings for a series of twenty-four

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchpictures purporting to illustrate the lifeof Wesley.

"'You'll come down to-morrow andattend service, won't you?' asked thisold griffin.

" * Inasmuch as I live about five milesdue west of here,' said I, *it is likelythat if I attend service at all I shallattend service where a cab fare of twoand six is not involved.'

"*But aren't you a Noncomformistdivine ?' she asked.

"* Madam,' said I seriously, *I havebeen mistaken at different times for SolSmith Russell, Nat Goodwin, HarryDixey, and Bill Nye, but never yet haveI been told that I looked like a preacher.

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EUGENE FIELD: A SketchNo, my good sister in Adam, I am nota clergymanI am by predestination,preordination, prepossession, predilection,and profession, an ungodly newspaperman.'

" * Lor' me ! ' she exclaimed, and ashade of disappointment crept into hervoice; *thinkin' you was a divine Iknocked offsixpence on them pictures

! '"

Being a genius. Field possessed theinevitable touch of eccentricity whichshowed itself most prominently in hislove for old and rare books. Many ofthe volumes he purchased had no possi-ble bearing upon his work, and indeedhad small intrinsic value. " My library,"he used to say, "is full of fool books,"

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchand there was some truth in this. Forexample, he had hundreds of volumescontaining the works of unknown andfor the most part unworthy poets.Nothing pleased him more than to buysome little volume of execrable verse,produced by a local poet in BattleCreek, or any other insignificant place,and these he would range proudly withthe others and sometimes turn over thepages "just to see how bad they were."He said that things had to be either verygood or very bad in order to please him.He was essentially a bibliophrydasiac,

or, in other words, an inspirer of biblio-mania. His most notable proselytes tothe noble craze were Francis Wilson,

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EUGENE FIELD: A Sketchthe comedian, and Harry B. Smith, thelibrettist. They never collected booksuntil Field introduced them to the seduc-tive pleasures of book-hunting.

Field was a most enthusiastic collectorof everything that for any reason mightbe regarded as worth collecting. Oncein New York, some of his friends foundhim in his room at a Broadway hotelsurrounded by old pewter pots andplates, old warming-pans and porringersand everything else that looked as if itmight be old. He tried hard to believethat these things came over in the May-jiower, and no matter what the prices hepaid he thought he had made a bargain.This inability to refuse to buy anything

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the stars a slumber story

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