INTRODUCTION.

From whatever point of view the character of Eugene Field is seen, genius—rare and quaint presents itself is childlike simplicity. That he was a poet of keen perception, of rare discrimination, all will admit. He was a humorist as delicate and fanciful as Artemus Ward, Mark Twain, Bill Nye, James Whitcomb Riley, Opie Read, or Bret Harte in their happiest moods. Within him ran a poetic vein, capable of being worked in any direction, and from which he could, at will, extract that which his imagination saw and felt most. That he occasionally left the child-world, in which he longed to linger, to wander among the older children of men, where intuitively the hungry listener follows him into his Temple of Mirth, all should rejoice, for those who knew him not, can while away the moments imbibing the genius of his imagination in the poetry and prose here presented.

Though never possessing an intimate acquaintanceship with Field, owing largely to the disparity in our ages, still there existed a bond of friendliness that renders my good opinion of him in a measure trustworthy. Born in the same city, both students in the same college, engaged at various times in newspaper work both in St. Louis and Chicago, residents of the same ward, with many mutual friends, it is not surprising that I am able to say of him that "the world is better off that he lived, not in gold and silver or precious jewels, but in the bestowal of priceless truths, of which the possessor of this book becomes a benefactor of no mean share of his estate."

Every lover of Field, whether of the songs of childhood or the poems that lend mirth to the out-pouring of his poetic nature, will welcome this unique collection of his choicest wit and humor.

CHARLES WALTER Brown.

Chicago, January, 1905.

CONTENTS.

John Smith The Fisherman's Feast To John J. Knickerbocker, Jr. The Bottle and the Bird The Man Who Worked with Dana on the "Sun" A Democratic Hymn The Blue and the Gray It is the Printer's Fault Summer Heat Plaint of the Missouri 'Coon in the Berlin Zoological Gardens The Bibliomaniac's Bride Ezra J. M'Manus to a Soubrette The Monstrous Pleasant Ballad of the Taylor Pup Long Meter To DeWitt Miller Francois Villon Lydia Dick The Tin Bank In New Orleans The Peter-Bird Dibdin's Ghost An Autumn Treasure-Trove When the Poet Came The Perpetual Wooing My Playmates Mediaeval Eventide Song Alaskan Balladry Armenian Folk-Song—The Stork The Vision of the Holy Grail The Divine Lullaby Mortality A Fickle Woman Egyptian Folk-Song Armenian Folk-Song—The Partridge Alaskan Balladry, No. 1 Old Dutch Love Song An Eclogue from Virgil Horace to Maecenas Horace's "Sailor and Shade" Uhland's "Chapel" "The Happy Isles" of Horace Horatian Lyrics Hugo's "Pool in the Forest" Horace I., 4 Love Song—Heine Horace II., 3 The Two Coffins Horace I., 31 Horace to His Lute Horace I., 22

The "Ars Poetica" of Horace XXIII Marthy's Younkit Abu Midjan The Dying Year Dead Roses

JOHN SMITH.

To-day I strayed in Charing Cross as wretched as could be With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea; There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast. This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by— Not one in all the crowd knew me and not a one knew I! "Oh, for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh, for a friendly face! Oh, for a hearty handclasp in this teeming desert place!" And so, soliloquizing as a homesick creature will, Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's, Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes. The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight— The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day— The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U.S.A."

Wildly I clutched the register and brooded on that name— I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same. I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West— I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best. His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue, And, when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue; Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a brunette— Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet; I see you yet, and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream, Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme Appropriate to your character, your politics and clime; So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"—your pedigree confess In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess"; Let fall your tell-tale dialect, that instantly I may Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U.S.A."

It's like as not you are the John that lived a spell ago Down East, where codfish, beans 'nd bona-fide school-marms grow; Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills And where the robin hops about the cherry boughs and trills; Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size, And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies; Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond, And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond; Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent; Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir, Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire: Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week, And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak, And where our grandmas sleep their sleep—God rest their souls, I say! And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U.S.A."

Or, mebbe, Colonel Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know In the country whar the finest democrats 'nd horses grow; Whar the ladies are all beautiful an' whar the crap of cawn Is utilized for Bourbon and true dawters are bawn; You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott— Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot; And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so true As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue; Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight, Whar a yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night; Whar blooms the furtive 'possum—pride an' glory of the South— And Aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth! Whar, all night long, the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze, Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay— Hyar's lookin' at yo', Colonel "John Smith, U.S.A."!

Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West— That part of our republic I shall always love the best? Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine In the Red Hoss mountain country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine? Oh, how I'd like to clasp your hand an' set down by your side And talk about the good old days beyond the big divide; Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat, Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote, And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago (Three-Fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom and Parson Jim, you know)! Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high again, And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em then; The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro, And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below; And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.

You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall, And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all! For when a man sojourns abroad awhile (as I have done) He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one— And so they are! For well you know there's nothing in a name—- Our Browns, our Joneses and our Smiths are happily the same; All represent the spirit of the land across the sea, All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free! Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East— So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least; Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword or pine, He is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine! Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known, Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone! And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U.S.A."

THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST.

Of all the gracious gifts of Spring, Is there another can safely surpass This delicate, voluptuous thing— This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass? Upon a damask napkin laid, What exhalations superfine Our gustatory nerves pervade, Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine.

The ancients loved this noble fish, And, coming from the kitchen fire All piping hot upon a dish, What raptures did he not inspire! "Fish should swim twice," they used to say— Once in their native vapid brine, And then a better way— You understand? Fetch on the wine!

Ah, dainty monarch of the flood, How often have I cast for you— How often sadly seen you scud Where weeds and pussy willows grew! How often have you filched my bait! How often have you snapped my treacherous line!— Yet here I have you on this plate. You shall swim twice, and now in wine!

And, harkee, garcon! let the blood Of cobwebbed years be spilt for him— Aye, in a rich Burgundy flood This piscatorial pride should swim; So, were he living, he should say He gladly died for me and mine, And, as it was his native spray, He'd lash the sauce—What, ho! the wine!

I would it were ordained for me To share your fate, oh finny friend! I surely were not loath to be Reserved for such a noble end; For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, At last reels in his ruthless line, What were my ecstacy to swim In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!

Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring! And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, Come hither every year and bring The boons provocative of mirth; And should your stock of bass run low, However much I might repine, I think I might survive the blow If plied with wine, and still more wine!

TO JOHN J. KNICKERBOCKER, JR.

Whereas, good friend, it doth appear You do possess the notion To his awhile away from here To lands across the ocean; Now, by these presents we would show That, wheresoever wend you, And wheresoever gales may blow, Our friendship shall attend you.

What though on Scotia's banks and braes You pluck the bonnie gowan, Or chat of old Chicago days O'er Berlin brew with Cowen; What though you stroll some boulevard In Paris (c'est la belle ville!), Or make the round of Scotland Yard With our lamented Melville?

Shall paltry leagues of foaming brine True heart from true hearts sever? No—in this draught of honest wine We pledge it, comrade—never! Though mountain waves between us roll, Come fortune or disaster— 'Twill knit us closer soul to soul And bind our friendships faster.

So here's a bowl that shall be quaff'd To loyalty's devotion, And here's to fortune that shall waft Your ship across the ocean, And here's a smile for those who prate Of Davy Jones's locker, And here's a pray'r in every fate— God bless you, Knickerbocker!

THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD.

Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show, And after we had reveled in the saltatory sights We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights; When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred, He quoth: "A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!"

Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes! There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine— A certain inspiration which I cannot well define! How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say: "Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!"

But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate— How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate! You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes; To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred What horror was encompassed in that one small hot bird.

Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day, And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay! What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside! And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!

The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so, But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know! The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said, Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head, And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred, Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.

Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right If ever it has been your wont to train around at night; How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine, And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline! How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast, And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!

But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be you fly Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie— I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong, Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song; Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit me and mine— I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!

So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the tell-tale day— Come hither with your fillets and your wreathes of posies gay; We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine, And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard Of the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.

THE MAN WHO WORKED WITH DANA ON THE "SUN".

Thar showed up out 'n Denver in the spring of '81 A man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. His name was Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he was a sight ter view Ez he walked into the orfice 'nd inquired for work to do; Thar warn't no places vacant then—fer, be it understood, That was the time when talent flourished at that altitood; But thar the stranger lingered, tellin' Raymond 'nd the rest Uv what perdigious wonders he could do when at his best— 'Til finally he stated (quite by chance) that he had done A heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

Wall, that wuz quite another thing; we owned that ary cuss Who'd worked f'r Mr. Dana must be good enough for us! And so we tuk the stranger's word 'nd nipped him while we could, For if we didn't take him we knew John Arkins would— And Cooper, too, wuz mousin' round for enterprise 'nd brains, Whenever them commodities blew in across the plains. At any rate, we nailed him—which made ol' Cooper swear And Arkins tear out handfuls uv his copious curly hair— But we set back and cackled, 'nd had a power uv fun With our man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

It made our eyes hang on our cheeks 'nd lower jaws ter drop Ter hear that feller tellin' how ol' Dana run his shop; It seems that Dana was the biggest man you ever saw— He lived on human bein's 'nd preferred to eat 'em raw! If he had democratic drugs to take, before he took 'em, As good old allopathic laws prescribe, he allus shook 'em! The man that could set down 'nd write like Dana never grew And the sum of human knowledge wuzn't half what Dana knew. The consequence appeared to be that nearly everyone Concurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York Sun.

This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought an item in— He spent his time at Perrin's shakin' poker dice f'r gin; Whatever the assignment, he wuz allus sure to shirk— He wuz very long on likker and all-fired short on work! If any other cuss had played the tricks he dare ter play, The daisies would be bloomin' over his remains to-day; But, somehow, folks respected him and stood him to the last, Considerin' his superior connections in the past; So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker drew a gun On the man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall uv '83— A very different party from the man we thought ter see! A nice 'nd clean old gentleman, so dignerfied 'nd calm— You bet yer life he never did no human bein' harm! A certain hearty manner 'nd a fullness uv the vest Betokened that his sperrits 'nd his victuals wuz the best; His face was so benevolent, his smile so sweet 'nd kind, That they seemed to be the reflex uv an honest, healthy mind, And God had set upon his head a crown uv silver hair In promise of the golden crown He meaneth him to wear; So, uv us boys that met him out 'n Denver there wuz none But fell in love with Dana uv the Noo York Sun.

But when he came to Denver in that fall uv '83 His old friend, Cantell Whoppers, disappeared upon a spree; The very thought uv seein' Dana worked upon him so (They hadn't been together fer a year or two, you know) That he borrowed all the stuff he could and started on a bat, And, strange as it may seem, we didn't see him after that. So when ol' Dana hove in sight we couldn't understand Why he didn't seem to notice that his crony wa'n't on hand; No casual allusion—not a question, no, not one— For the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"!

We broke it gently to him, but he didn't seem surprised— Thar wuz no big burst uv passion as we fellers had surmised; He said that Whoppers wuz a man he didn't never heerd about, But he might have carried papers on a Jersey City route— And then he recollected hearin' Mr. Laflin say That he fired a man named Whoppers fur bein' drunk one day, Which, with more likker underneath than money in his vest, Had started on a freight train fur the great 'nd boundin' West— But further information or statistics he had none Uv the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun."

We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss— When we get played fer suckers—why, that's a horse on us! But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff A man who's "worked with Dana"—'nd then we fellers wink And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think. It seems like Dana couldn't be as smart as people say If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away; And, as for us, in future we'll be very apt to shun The man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun"!

But, bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years, To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears; An' may I live a thousan', too—a thousan', less a day, For I shouldn't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away. And when it comes your time to go you'll need no Latin chaff Nor biographic data put in your epitaph; But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe; You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run That best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun."

A DEMOCRATIC HYMN.

Republicans of differing views Are pro or con protection; If that's the issue they would choose, Why, we have no objection. The issue we propose concerns Our hearts and homes more nearly: A wife to whom the nation turns And venerates so dearly. So, confident of what shall be, Our gallant host advances, Giving three cheers for Grover C. And three times three for Frances!