Tag: Eugene Field

From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 13, 1913. By Eugene Field.

The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool—
Of red wing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool;
It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill,
And I hear the thrush’s evening song and the robin’s morning trill,
So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know
Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checkerberries grow.

What has become of Ezra Marsh, who lived on Baker’s Hill?
And what’s become of Noble Pratt, whose father kept the mill?
And what’s become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell,
And of Roxie Root, who ‘tended school in Boston for a spell?
They are the boys and they are the girls who shared my youthful play—
They do not answer to my call! My playmates—where are they?

What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe,
Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago?
I’d like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown,
And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles, who spelled the whole school down!
And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow and all,
Who I am sure would answer could they only hear my call!

I’d like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again,
And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men!
And one—I shall not name her—could I see her gentle face
And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place!
The flowers and hopes of springtime—they perished long ago,
And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow.

O cottage ‘neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys
That but a little while ago made, Oh! such pleasant noise?
O trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you know
Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago?
You see I’m old and weary, and I’ve traveled long and far;
I am looking for my playmates—I wonder where they are?

From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 14, 1913. By Eugene Field.

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
    When birds are on the wing,
When bee and bud and babbling flood
    Bespeak the birth of spring;
Come sweetheart, be my sweetheart
    And wear this posy ring.

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
    In the golden summer glow
Of the earth aflush with the gracious blush
    Which the ripening fields foreshow;
Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart
    As into the noon we go.

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
    When falls the bounteous year,
When the fruit and wine of tree and vine
    Give us their harvest cheer;
O sweetheart, be my sweetheart,
    For winter, it draweth near.

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart
    When the year is white and old,
When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth,
    And the hand of age is cold;
Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheart
    ‘Till the year of our love be told.

From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 7, 1913. By Eugene Field.

Dictionary.com: feist, also fice, fyce. Chiefly South Midland and Southern U.S. A small mongrel dog, especially one that is ill-tempered; cur; mutt.

 Speakin’ of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce
 Hed most o' the virtues, an' nary a vice.
 Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose,
 From his predisposition to chronic repose;
 But, rouse his ambition, he couldn't be beat—
 Yer bet he got thar on all his four feet!
 
 Mos’ dorgs hez some forte—like huntin’ an’ such,
 But the sports o’ the field didn’t bother him much;
 Wuz just a plain dorg’ an’ contented to be
 On peaceable terms with the neighbors an’ me;
 Used to fiddle an’ squirm, and grunt, “Oh, how, nice!"
 When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce!
 
 He wuz long in the bar’l, like a fyce oughter be;
 His color wuz yaller as ever you see;
 His tail, curlin’ upward, wuz long, loose, an’ slim—
 When he didn’t wag it, why, the tail it wagged him!
 His legs wuz so crooked, my bench legged pup
 Wuz as tall settin’ down as he wuz standin’ up!
 
 He’d lie by the stove of a night an’ regret
 The various vittles an’ things he had et;
 When a stranger, most like a tramp, come along,
 He’d lift up his voice in significant song—
 You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz space
 In that bosom o’ his’n to hold so much bass!
 
 Of daytimes he’d sneak to the road an’ lie down,
 An’ tackle the country dorgs comin' to town;
 By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe,
 For what he took hold of he never let go!
 An’ a dude that come courtin’ our girl left a slice
 Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce!
 
 He wuz good to us kids—when we pulled at his fur
 Or twisted his tail he would never demur;
 He seemed to enjoy all our play an’ our chaff,
 For his tongue ’u’d hang out an’ he’d laff an’ he’d laff;
 An’ once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice,
 He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench legged fyce!
 
 We all hev our choice, an’ you, like the rest,
 Allow that the dorg which you’ve got is the best!
 I wouldn’t give much for the boy ’at grows up
 With no friendship subsistin’ ’tween him an’ a pup!
 When a fellow gits old—I tell you its nice
 To think of his youth, and his bench legged fyce!
 
 To think of the springtime ’way back in St. Joe—
 Of the peach trees abloom an’ the daisies ablow;
 To think of the play in the medder an’ grove,
 When little legs wrassled an’ little hands strove;
 To think of the loyalty, valor, an’ truth
 Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth!