Field praises pie: That viand all-inspiring!

Eugene Field was a prolific writer with a wide range, particularly in his poetry. But he never took himself too seriously and, as a result, plenty of the work of the Missouri-born Field is humor writing. Few other poets would dare tackle such a serious topic as baked goods, but such is the case in his poem "In Praise of Pie," dated April 8, 1890:

I'd like to weave a pretty rhyme
   To send my Daily News.
What shall I do? In vain I woo
   The too-exacting Muse;
In vain I coax the tyrant minx,
   And this the reason why:
She will not sing a plaguy thing,
   Because I've eaten pie.

A pretty pass it is, indeed,
   That I have reached at last,
If I, in spite of appetite,
   Must fast, and fast, and fast!
The one dear boon I am denied
   Is that for which I sigh.
Take all the rest that men hold best,
   But leave, oh, leave me pie!

Field sings the praises of pie in an even more poetic way when he names fellow poets and authors who equally enjoy the treat:

I hear that Whittier partakes
   Of pie three times a day;
And it is rife that with a knife
   He stows that pie away.
There's Stoddard—he was raised on pie;
   And he is hale and fat.
And Stedman's cry is always "pie,"
   And hot mince-pie at that!

Of course I'm not at all like those
   Great masters in their art,
Except that pie doth ever lie
   Most sweetly next my heart,
And that I fain would sing my songs
   Without surcease or tiring
If 'neath my vest and else could rest
   That viand all-inspiring!

What I object to is the harsh,
   Vicarious sacrifice
I'm forced to make if I partake
   Of fair and proper pies;
The pangs I suffer are the pangs
   To other sinners due.
I'd gladly bear my righteous share,
   But not the others', too.

How vain the gift of heavenly fire,
   How vain the laurel wreath,
If these crown not that godlike spot,
   A well-filled paunch beneath!
And what is glory but a sham
   To those who pine and sigh
For bliss denied, which (as implied)
   Is pie, and only pie!

Well, since it's come to such a pass,
   I boldly draw the line;
Go thou, O Muse, which way you choose,
   While I meander mine.
Farewell, O fancies of the pen,
   That dazzled once mine eye;
My choice may kill, but still, oh, still,
   I choose and stand for pie!

She April-fooled me years ago!

Eugene Field wrote his poem "April Fool" a few days shy of the titular date: It was dated March 27, 1884. In his usual tongue-in-cheek way, the Missouri-born humorist sets up his reader before twisting his/her expectations:

Fair was her young and girlish face,
   Her lips were luscious red as wine;
Her willowy form betrayed a grace
   That seemed to me to be divine.
One evening at the trysting-place
   I asked this maiden to be mine.
Unhappy, thrice-unhappy youth
   Was I to court the crushing blow;
But why delay the awful truth—
   She April-fooled me years ago!

Filled with a ghastly, grim dismay
   As kneeling at her feet I heard
This fair but cruel angel say
   That last, unhappy, severing word,
I fluttered hopelessly away
   Like some forlorn and stricken bird.
For years I played the cynic's part,
   For years I nursed my secret woe;
And this reflection galled my heart—
   She April-fooled me years ago!

But she is forty now, and fat,
   And vanished all her graces are:
And many a lusty, brawling brat
   Pulls at her skirts and calls her "ma,"
And I have information that
   Her horrid husband tends a bar.
And when I see that fleeting years
   Have changed my quondam angel so,
I thank my stars, 'mid grateful tears,
   She April-fooled me years ago!

Henry on Field: he found his kingdom

O. Henry had been working for the Daily Post in Houston, Texas for only about three weeks when he heard of the death of his friend and fellow author Eugene Field. Originally, he called his column "Tales of the Town" before changing it to "Some Postscripts." Most were short, humorous vignettes. On November 6, 1895, two days after Field's death, however, he offered this poetic tribute:

No gift his genius might have had,
   Of titles high in church or State,

Could charm him as the one he bore
   Of children's poet laureate.

He smiling pressed aside the bays
   And laurel garlands that he won,

And bowed his head for baby hands
   To place a daisy wreath upon.

He found his kingdom in the ways
   Of little ones he loved so well;

For them he tuned his lyre and sang
   Sweet simple songs of magic spell.

Oh, greater feat to storm the gates
   Of children's pure and cleanly hearts,

Than to subdue a warring world
   By stratagems and doubtful arts!

So, when he laid him down to sleep
   And earthly honors seemed so poor;

Methinks he clung to little hands
   The latest, for the love they bore.

A tribute paid by chanting choirs
   And pealing organs rises high;

But soft and clear, somewhere he hears
   Through all, a child's low lullaby.

Death of Field: Sailed off in a wooden shoe

Eugene Field had planned to leave on a trip to Kansas City when he died unexpectedly at 5 o'clock in the morning on November 4, 1895. His body was discovered by his son at their home in Chicago. His death was quite sudden and, though he had been sick, none thought his heart disease was so poor. His obituary called him "a remarkable character" whose "verses endeared him to the multitude." The St. Louis born Field was a humorist and poet, particularly popular among children. He had written the 19th section of what became his final work, The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac, only two days before his death (his brother, Roswell Martin Field, Jr., wrote the introduction for the book's posthumous publication). For a man who died in his sleep, perhaps it is appropriate that his most work famous remains "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod":

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
   Sailed off in a wooden shoe—
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
   Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
   The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
   That live in this beautiful sea;
   Nets of silver and gold have we!"
            Said Wynken,
            Blynken,
            And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
   As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
   Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
   That lived in that beautiful sea—
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish—
   Never afeard are we";
   So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
            Wynken,
            Blynken,
            And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
   To the stars in the twinkling foam—
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
   Bringing the fishermen home;
'T was all so pretty a sail it seemed
   As if it could not be,
And some folks thought 'twas a dream they 'd dreamed
   Of sailing that beautiful sea—
   But I shall name you the fishermen three:
            Wynken,
            Blynken,
            And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
   And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
   Is a wee one's trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
   Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
   As you rock in the misty sea,
   Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
            Wynken,
            Blynken,
            And Nod.

Field: sing Nature's song, untouched of art

Eugene Field had a fairly eclectic career as a poet, composing many humorous works as well as more serious verses. He worried, however, how poetry was bundled, packaged, and sold for mass consumption. His poem "In Praise of Truth and Simplicity in Song" is dated August 16, 1886 and specifically fears the natural calling for the poet will be superseded by the overwrought:

Oh, for the honest, blithesome times
    Of bosky Sherwood long ago,
When Allen trolled his amorous rhymes
    And Robin twanged his crafty bow;
When Little John and Friar Tuck
    Traversed the greenwood far and near,
Feasting on many a royal buck
    Washed down with brown October beer!

Beside their purling sylvan rills,
    What knew these yeomen bold and free
Of envious cares and grewsome ills
    That now, sweet friend, vex you and me?
Theirs but to roam the leafy glade,
    Beshrewing sheriffs, lords, and priests,
To loll supine beneath the shade,
    Regaling monarchs with their feasts.

The murrain seize these ribald times
    When there is such a lust for gold
That poets fashion all their rhymes,
    Like varlet tradesfolk, to be sold!
Not so did Allen when he troll'd
    His ballads in that merry glade;
Nay, in those courteous days of old
    The minstrel spurned the tricks of trade!

So, joyous friend, when you and I
    Sing to the world our chosen theme,
Let's do as do the birds that fly
    Careless o'er woodland, wold, and stream:
Sing Nature's song, untouched of art—
    Sing of the forest, brook, and plain;
And, hearing it, each human heart
    Will vibrate with the sweet refrain.

Field: the bliss of one sweet kiss

St. Louis-born poet and humorist Eugene Field dated his poem "A Song for the Christmas Wind" as December 26, 1885. In it, he personifies a gust of wind as it travels (the only indication it is Christmas is in the title):

As on my roving way I go
   Beneath the starlight's gleaming,
Upon a bank of feathery snow
   I find a moonbeam dreaming;
I crouch beside the pretty miss
   And cautiously I give her
My gentlest, tend'rest little kiss,
   And frown to see her shiver.
            Oho! Oho!
            On bed of snow
Beneath the starlight's gleaming,
            I steal the bliss
            Of one sweet kiss
From that fair friend a-dreaming.

I scamper up the gloomy street
   With wild, hilarious shrieking,
And each rheumatic sign I meet
   I set forthwith to creaking;
The sooty chimneys wheeze and sigh
   In dismal apprehension,
And when the rich man passes by
   I pay him marked attention.
            Oho! Oho!
            With gusts of snow
I love to pelt and blind him;
            But I kiss the curls
            Of the beggar-girls
Who crouch in the dark behind him.

In summer-time a posy fair
   Bloomed on the distant heather,
And every day we prattled there
   And sang our songs together;
And thither, as we sang or told
   Of love's unchanging glory,
A maiden and her lover strolled,
   Repeating our sweet story.
            "Oho! Oho!"
            We murmur low—
The maid and I, together;
            For summer 's sped
            And love is dead
Upon the distant heather.

Eugene Field: A Fool

Certainly, Eugene Field did write a few serious poems but, for the most part, he was a humorist. Though it's easy to label his work as "children's literature," his type of silly humor can be appreciated by people of all ages (some of his work can even be frustrating). Though a Missouri-born writer, Field later admitted his home town of St. Louis was an "ineffably uninteresting city" and claimed he was "a Yankee by pedigree and education."

True, Field's father was from Vermont and, after the death of his mother when he was about 6 years old, young Eugene was taken to Amherst, Massachusetts. He grew up there and in Newfane, Vermont, raised by family members. Later, he had a short stint at a college in Massachusetts, though he eventually transferred to a school in Missouri (or "Poor Old Mizzoorah," as he called it).

Field was lucky to have his humor, despite his odd, semi-orphaned displacement. Though he claimed he was himself a Yankee, he was a born Southerner, and often remarked on the strange influence of Puritanism in New England. His recollections of religious life in that area brought with it memories of cold and drafty meeting-houses, and uncomfortable, straight-backed chairs ("o, so hard," he recalled).

Eventually, Field moved to Chicago, and it was here that he wrote a short humorous verse titled "The Fool," dated November 26, 1886:

A Fool, when plagued by fleas by night,
   Quoth: "Since these neighbors so despite me
I think I will put out the light
   And then they cannot see to bite me!"

(To Be Read Aloud Rapidly)

Eugene Field's poem, "A Play On Words" is dated September 12, 1883.  Under the title, the Missouri-born poet added a subtitle — or, perhaps more accurately, instructions:

"A Play On Words"
(To Be Read Aloud Rapidly)

Assert ten Barren love day made
   Dan woo'd her hart buy nigh tan day;
Butt wen knee begged she 'd marry hymn,
   The crewel bell may dancer neigh.
Lo atter fee tin vein he side
   Ant holder office offal pane—
A lasses mown touched knot terse sole—
   His grown was sever awl Lynn vane.

"Owe, beam my bride, my deer, rye prey,
   And here mice size beef ore rye dye;
Oak caste mean knot tin scorn neigh way—
   Yew are the apple love me nigh!"
She herd Dan new we truly spoke.
   Key was of noble berth, and bread
Tool lofty mean and hie renown,
   The air too grate testates, 't was head.

"Ewe wood due bettor, sir," she bald,
   "Took court sum mother girl, lie wean—
Ewer knot mice stile, lisle never share
   The thrown domestic azure quean!"
"'T is dun, no farebutt Scilly won—
   Aisle waiste know father size on the!"
Oft tooth the nay bring porte tea flue
   And through himself into the see.

It will take a couple reads to get it all. Good luck.

Field: Charmed by the graces

The poet Eugene Field met the Polish actress Helena Modjeska in St. Louis in the 1870s, years before she moved to California and became an American citizen. On April 22, 1886, Field — himself born in St. Louis but more readily identified with the West — read a poem at a breakfast in her honor, referencing many of the Shakespearean characters she played:

In thy sweet self, dear lady guest, we find
Juliet's dark face, Viola's gentle mien,
The dignity of Scotland's martyr'd queen—
The beauty and the wit of Rosalind.
What wonder, then, that we who mop our eyes
And sob and gush when we should criticise—
Charmed by the graces of your mien and mind—
What wonder we should hasten to proclaim
The art that has secured thy deathless fame?
And this we swear: We will endorse no name
But thine alone to old Melpomene,
Nor will revolve, since rising sons are we,
Round any orb, save, dear Modjeska, thee
Who art our Pole star, and will ever be.

Field also wrote "The Wanderer" in dedication to Modjeska. The attention he paid to the married actress inevitably led to some rumors. In her autobiography, Modjeska described him this way:

I admired him for his genuine poetic talent, his originality and almost childlike simplicity, as much as for his great heart... The author of exquisitely dainty poems, and withal a brilliant and witty humorist, he was equally lovable in all these various characters. He was full of original ideas which often gave a quaint touch to his receptions. In later years, when he lived in Chicago, I remember a dinner en forme, which he called a "reversed one," beginning with black coffee and ice-cream, and ending with soup and oysters. After the first course he delivered a most amusing toast. We were laughing so much that tears stood in our eyes.

On another occasion, Modjeska recounts, several friends were invited to Field's house to meet a friend from abroad. That friend never appeared. As the guests were getting ready to leave, a donkey appeared at the window, braying loudly. "This is my belated friend!" Field exclaimed, "He is, indeed, a great donkey!" She notes that one of the guests wondered who the satirical scene really referred to. As Modjeska wrote, "Thus are commentaries written, looking for some deep, hidden meaning in a simple joke."

Field: the West shall know me best

Eugene Field himself is mostly to blame for the confusion over his birth date. He is generally presumed to have been born on September 2, 1850, though he occasionally claimed it was September 3 (both his brother and his father disagreed).

Whatever the date, the future poet started his life in St. Louis, Missouri (the site of his birth is now a historic house and toy museum), though his parents were both from Vermont; his father was the lawyer who defended Dred Scott, a slave who sued for his freedom. At age 6, his mother died and he joined family in Amherst, Massachusetts. He later went to college in Illinois but completed his schooling back in Missouri, the state of his birth on September 2 (or 3), 1850.

Primarily a journalist, Field also wrote a substantial number of poems; many are either humorous or aimed at children. He often wrote of the West and he often tried to express the distinct dialect of Westerners.

His popularity as a writer put him in the circle of people like Julian Hawthorne (son of Nathaniel), Edmund Clarence Stedman and Mark Twain. After Field's death, Twain was present for the unveiling of a historical marker on Field's birthplace in Missouri. Twain later was told that they may have accidentally marked the wrong house. "Never mind," he said. "It is of no real consequence whether it is his birthplace or not. A rose in any other garden will bloom as sweet."

In his poem "The Poet's Metamorphosis," Field writes about a person "of lowly birth," who hopes to fly "to realms beyond these human portals" by writing "songs all the world shall keep repeating." The poem ends:

Methinks the West shall know me best,
  And therefore hold my memory dearer;
For by that lake a bard shall make
  My subtle, hidden meanings clearer.

So cherished, I shall never die;
  Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises,
Your elegies, and plaintive cries,
  For I shall fertilize no daisies!

*The pencil drawing above is a self-portrait in profile by Field himself.
*Recommended reading: Eugene Field and His Age (2000) by Lewis O. Saum