The herald., 1893-12-24
SOMETHING ABOUT GENE FIELD
Something About the Career of
a Happy Writer.
His Evolution From Reporter Into
Poetical Essayist.
Some Examples of His EARLY work-His
Poetry and His Fabies-Now
In Southern Calf.
forpia.

So Gene Field is down in Los Auge-
les, eh7 Trying to thaw out case OF
Lake Michigan pneumonia, they say.
Well, well, we'll. Same old Gene Field,
suppose? do hope he'll get along all
right, for there is never a man / read
who can start laugh or tear on me
with the facility of that man, 'Gene
Field. He's a humorist. By that l
mean one who can put us either in a
good humor or bad one by the simple
transmission of some thoughts to us on
paper. That's a rare gift, possessed by
q few.
Perhaps the reader will be interested
in knowing more about this rare Gene
Field of Chicago. At least it pleases
me to be able to tell something about
him, and thus it is a matter of small
Importance whether the reader be
pleased on not: for if not pleased the
reader may rstaliate by ceasing to be q
reader. And 30 here goes.
He was born in st. Louis. That hap
pened in 1850. Since then nothing of
Importance has occurred in st. Louis
but | forgot; dear me, this is the story
of Eugene Field, not of St. Louis. When
he was very young he WAS sent away off
TO Massachusetts, to live with his aunt,
because his mother was dead, and after
a long while he got to be eighteen years
old. Then he was sent to Williams
College. His father died one year later
and the young man returned to Missouri
and soon after entered the State Univer-
city. At the close OF the junior year he
lett school and hasn't been back since.
He went to Europe. 1t must have been
there that he first began the perpetra-
tion of his jokes, for we have been hear
ing fumors of war in Europe ever since.
But those were his first jokes, you must
understand, and mans first jokes-O,
well, | can't say much, myself.
In 1873 Mr.. Field did his first newepa-
per work. He was q reporter on the st.
Louis Evening Journal when Stanley
Huntley, the man who wrote those
hilariously funny Spoopendyke papers,
was city editor. Soon after Field was the
associate editor of the st. Joseph Gazette.
Afterwards, to escape paying poll tax.
he moved to Kansas City and became
the managing editor OF the Daily Times.
Then he doubled back on his tracks and
for while edited the st. Louis Times-
Journal.
Mr.. Field used to chew enormous |
quantities of fine cut tobacco in those
days and it made him thin and pale.
Then he allowed his hair to grow quite
long while at the same time his pants |
grew short, like his salary, and the first |
thing he knew the Impression got out |
that he was poet. So then the Mis-
souri, Press association, being shy q
post elected him to fill the vacancy. In
5st.liaisan of this insnls MI. Eisld sat /,
down one day, sDout this TIME OF the
year, and wrote poem entitled Christ
mas Treasures. 1t went oD to state:
count my treasures DER with care
A little toy that baby knew
A little lock of faded hue
little lock of golden hair
Long years ago this Christmas time,
my little one-my all to me
Sat robed in white upon my knee.
And heard the merry Christmas chime.
"Tell me- my little golden-head,
If Santa Claus should come tonight,
What shall he bring my baby bright
What treasures for my boy?" said
And then he named the little toy,
While in his round apd truthful eyes
There came a look of glad surprise
That spoke his trustful, childish Joy.
And as he lisped his evening pray'r.
He asked the boon with baby grace,
And toddl1ng to the chimney place,
He hung his little stocking there.
That night, as lengthening shadows crept
saw the white-winged angels come
With music to our humble home,
And kiss our darling as he slept
They must have head his baby pray'r,
For in the morn, with glowing face,
He toddled to the ch mney place
And found the little treasure there,
They came again one Christmas tide
That angel host go fair and white
And singing all the Christmas night.
They lured my darling from my side.
A little sock, little toy
A little lock of golden hair
The Christmas music on the air
A watching for my baby boy.
But If again that angel train,
And golden head come back for mo
To bear me to eternity,
My Watching will not be in vain.
Not satisfied, it seems, the association
again elected him poet. Mr.. Field again
waited for cold weather to come and
freeze his inspiration solid enough to
bear up his weight, when he once more
wrote as follows:
THE SAME DEAR HAND.
halls oft haDny sound