Girls High School - Yearbook (Reading, PA)

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1 1 Eugene Field and His Little Friends From the EUGENE FIELD BOOK. By permission of Gharles Scribner's Sons. to a great extent aided in his efforts by his deep love ofgchildren. lnvolun- tarily they were attracted to this kindred spirit, who was capable of telling more marvelous tales than even their vivid litttle imaginations could conjure up. lt is this sympathy for children and implicit belief in their fairy world that inspired most of his poetry. Otherwise how could he have written? l ain't afeard of snakes or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice! l'm pretty brave 1 guessg an' yet I hate to go to bed, For when l'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said, Mother tells me, 'Happy dreamsi' an' takes away the light, An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things t at night. Though renowned the world over for his humor, Field reached the height of his poeticaleifusion when writing of tragedy. Some great shock often completely revolutionizes a blithe, care-free nature and .touches hidden springs of sentiment hitherto undiscovered. Thus it seems that a tragedy was destined to bring out the noblest and sweetest in Field's nature. After the death of his litttle son all his works have an appealing touch of sadness. , The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and staunch he stands, And 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, 11

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Have you ever ,heard of the Sugar Plum Tree? 'Tis a marvel of great renown! It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop Sea, In the garden of Shut-Eye Towng The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet, CAs those who have tasted it sayl That good little children have only to eat Of that fruit to be happy next day. These are not fancies which appeal to men in their higher moments, moments of success, when they leave the world behind and other peoples seem lesser in comparison. Nor yet are they eternal fancies which appeal to those who wish to be uplifted, or wish to Hnd inspirations to ennoble their lives and strengthen their ideals. They are dainty child fancies, most de- lightful to a soul wearied with a surfeit of lofty ambitions, of wasting hopes, of goals, seemingly forever unattainable. Rest and refreshment for thte spirit is their gift to human kind. They help the strugglers on the toilsome way, make life more worth living, and stir the springs of eternal hope in the human heart. A ' Happy the man that while his blood is warm, Sees hope and friendships dead about him lie Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumnyg And 'mid it all stands sturdy and elate, Girt only with the armor God hath meant For him who 'neath the buffeting of fate Can say to God and man, 'I am content.' Field did not need nature to stir him to his greatest efforts as did Wordsworth, nor the supernatural as did Poe, nor yet the forces of love as Byron. Simple, everyday happenings when clothed with his rich imagina- tion and rollicking fancies are irresistible. Solitude was not an incentive tc him to work. It was when he was surrounded by people and in the midst of active life that his inspirations came to him. He was at a child's Christmas party when he composed his famous little jingle: Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill. Mighty glad I ain't a girl-rather be a boy Without them sashes, curls and things that's worn by Fauntleroy! Love to chawnk green apples, an' go swimmin' in the lake- Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! 'Most all the time the whole year round, there ' ain't no flies on me, But jist 'fore Christmas l'm as good as I kin be. The charming grace, pathos, sympathy and revelation of beautiful thought beneath a masque of fantasy came straight from his own heart and mind. He lived his life in his poetry, as do all truly great poets, He was 10

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And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. 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, y What has become of the Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there? Field is the beloved poet that he is, because in him we Hnd not only our aspirations but ourselves. ln him dawned the consciousness of greater powers that urged him on to higher effort. Before this genius we stand awed and our aspirations leap upward, but in our hearts ahides everlasting the love which his songs and sympathy with humanity have stirred. For a greater lover of humanity never lived nor one more in tune with the world for whom he wrote. His love knew no hounds, it extended to all and in return he was allowed to taste freely of the cup of happiness during his lifetime. Rosewell Field has it, What greater assurance can there be of happiness in that life where all is weighed in the scale of love, and love is triumphant, eternal? So we American people, instead of worshiping at the shrine of foreign poets, let us turn our devotion to the great men of our own lands. Never, can we requite the wondrous gift Eugene Field has left to the world. 'tTho' fame dies and honors perish, loving kindness is immortal, and Eugene Field will ever he welcomed in the hearts of the people as Eugene Field, the Beloved. Eugene Field and His Dolls From the EUGENE FIELD BOOK . Byypermission of Charles Scribner's Sons. 12