Eugene Field
Although born (September 3, 1850) in St. Louis, Missouri, Eugene Field belongs to the literature of the far West. Colorado and the Rocky Mountain region claimed him as their own and Field never repudiated the allegiance; he even called most of his poetry “Western Verse.”
Field’s area of education embraced New England, Missouri, and what European territory he could cover in six months. At twenty-three he became a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal, the rest of his life being given, with a dogged devotion, to journalism. Driven by the demands of his unique daily columns (those on the Denver Tribune [1881–1883] and the Chicago Daily News [1883–1895] were widely copied), Field first capitalized and then standardized his high spirits, his erudition, his whimsicality, his fondness for children. He wrote so often with his tongue in his cheek that it is difficult to say where true sentiment stops and an exaggerated sentimentality begins. “Field,” says Fred Lewis Pattee, in his detailed study of American Literature Since 1870, “more than any other writer of the period, illustrates the way the old type of literary scholar was to be modified and changed by the newspaper. Every scrap of Field’s voluminous product was written for immediate newspaper consumption. He patronized not at all the literary magazines, he wrote his books not at all with book intent—he made them up from newspaper fragments.... He was a pioneer in a peculiar province: he stands for the journalization of literature, a process that, if carried to its logical extreme, will make of the man of letters a mere newspaper reporter.”
Though Field still may be overrated in some quarters, there is little doubt that certain of his child lyrics, his homely philosophic ballads (in the vein which Harte and Riley popularized) and his brilliant burlesques will occupy a niche in American letters. Readers of all tastes will find much to surprise and delight them in A Little Book of Western Verse (1889), With Trumpet and Drum (1892), A Second Book of Verse (1893) and those remarkable versions (and perversions) of Horace, Echoes from the Sabine Farm (1893) written in collaboration with his equally adroit brother, Roswell M. Field. A complete one-volume edition of his verse was issued in 1910.
Field died in Chicago, Illinois, November 4, 1895.
Our Two Opinions9
Us two wuz boys when we fell out,—
Nigh to the age uv my youngest now;
Don’t rec’lect what ’twuz about,
Some small deeff’rence, I’ll allow.
Lived next neighbors twenty years,
A-hatin’ each other, me ’nd Jim,—
He having his opinyin uv me,
’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him.
Grew up together ’nd wouldn’t speak,
Courted sisters, ’nd marr’d ’em, too;
’Tended same meetin’-house oncet a week,
A-hatin’ each other through ’nd through!
But when Abe Linkern asked the West
F’r soldiers, we answered,—me ’nd Jim,—
He havin’ his opinyin uv me,
’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him.
But down in Tennessee one night
Ther’ wuz sound uv firin’ fur away,
’Nd the sergeant allowed ther’d be a fight
With the Johnnie Rebs some time nex’ day;
’Nd as I wuz thinkin’ uv Lizzie ’nd home
Jim stood afore me, long ’nd slim,—
He havin’ his opinyin uv me,
’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him.
Seemed like we knew there wuz goin’ to be
Serious trouble f’r me ’nd him;
Us two shuck hands, did Jim ’nd me,
But never a word from me or Jim!
He went his way ’nd I went mine,
’Nd into the battle’s roar went we,—
I havin’ my opinyin of Jim,
’Nd he havin’ his opinyin uv me.
Jim never came back from the war again,
But I hain’t forgot that last, last night
When, waitin’ f’r orders, us two men
Made up ’nd shuck hands, afore the fight,
’Nd after it all, it’s soothin’ to know
That here I be ’nd younder’s Jim,—
He havin’ his opinyin uv me,
’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him.
Little Boy Blue10
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
The little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
“Now don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So, toddling off to his trundle bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.
Seein’ Things11
I ain’t afraid 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” an’ 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 and so creepy-like they never make a sound!
Sometimes they are as black as ink, an’ other times they’re white—
But 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 ’at 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!