Goldsboro weekly argus. [volume] (Goldsboro, N.C.) 1885-1909, 1895-11-14
EUGENE FIELD.

''But bless ye, Mr.. Dana May yor
live a thousan' years
To sort o. keep things lively in this
vale of human tears;
An may live thousan' too-a thou
sam less day,
For l shouldn't like to be on earth tc
hear you'd passed away"
Poor Eugene Field. When he
penned those lines to the patri
arch Of the New York Sun, down
in that ever singing heart of his,
he had no thought but that he
would survive TIE veteran editor,
bent with his more than three
score years and ten. But Field
is dead, while Dana lives, The
pen that crooned babes to sleep
and sang men inlo better living
is stilled; the quill that IS ever
dipped in gall moves on. The
sunshine is gone; the shadow
remains. 4
There are a great many men
In the newspaper harness in
Chicago, who would be more
greatly missed among members
Of the guild than Gene Field.
Field was never during his life
in the western metropolis hab-
itue of the Chicago newspaper
mems bohemia. White Chape!
and Billy Boyles knew him not.
He was not a familiar figure at
any Of the places where news
paper men are won't to congre
gate in the city by the lake. He
was scarcely known among the
fellows in the office where he
worked. He lived without the
atmosphere of the newspaper
shops and within an atmosphere
of love which he created in his
home. With the rank and file of
Chicago newspaper men, the
death of Opie Reed would see
more of personal loss than
that of Gene Field.
But Gene Field had many
Warm frie1Sls in the newspaper
fold. The few attachments he
formed were devoted ones, and
among the older newspaper
writers in Chicago sorrow at his
death will be deeply felt
Gene Field differed from the
wild crowd Of fellows together
with whom he made Western
journalism at one time the Won
der of this land. He was the one
well balanced, one we'll poised
individual among lot Of brilliant
ROSTERS.
With ordinary acquaintances
Eugene Field was Indifference
personified. Very few people
ever met him casually ana liked
him. For man to meet Field
in person after learning to love
the author through his works,
was almost invariably a singing
disappointment. On such occa-
siOns one inevitably wondered
CA1NU . oCl1 q LII OIL. WILL Cl1C q l. kJCcb1
ance and manners Of a cold and
calculating man of business,
could have written these lines:
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy ana staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with
rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was yEbap tho Ji4tla TOW wa :
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 trund e-bed
He dreampt of the pretty toys,
And as he was dreaming an angel song
Awakened our little Boy Blue
oh, the years are 10 any, 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 little hand,
The smile Of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long
years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
Whau has become of our little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them
there.
And they wondered how this
man, with the cold face aid the
sharp, restless eye could have
written the lullabies of a nation
and sang songs Of wondrous
love. Field didn't carry his
heart in his sleeve, but 1t was
there in that bosom of his warm
and full Of love, but only those
who knew him best knew how il
beat all the time in keeping with
the bounteous songs he sang.
Fields home life was what he