of Horace, Echoes from the Sabine Farm (1893) written in collaboration with his equally adroit brother, Roswell M. Field. A complete one-volume edition of his verse was issued in 1910. Field died in Chicago, Illinois, November 4, 1895. OUR TWO OPINIONS 1 Us two wuz boys when we fell out,- Some small deeff'rence, I'll allow. 'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him. Grew up together 'nd wouldn't speak, 'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him. But down in Tennessee one night Ther' wuz sound uv firin' fur away, With the Johnnie Rebs some time nex' day; 1 Reprinted from The Complete Works of Eugene Field by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, holders of the copyright. 'Nd as I wuz thinkin' uv Lizzie 'nd home 'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him. Seemed like we knew there wuz goin' to be Us two shuck hands, did Jim 'nd me, 'Nd he havin' his opinyin uv me. Jim never came back from the war again, Made up 'nd shuck hands, afore the fight. He havin' his opinyin uv me, 'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him. LITTLE BOY BLUE1 The little toy dog is covered with dust, And his musket moulds in his hands. 1 Reprinted from The Complete Works of Eugene Field by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, holders of the copyright. Time was when the little toy dog was new, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 66 Now don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So, toddling off to his trundle bed, He dreamt of the pretty toys; Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, The smile of a little face; And they wonder, as waiting the long years through What has become of our Little Boy Blue, SEEIN' THINGS 1 I ain't afraid uv snakes or toads, or bugs or worms or mice, An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice! 1 Reprinted from The Complete Works of Eugene Field by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, holders of the copyright. I'm pretty brave I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed, For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said, Mother tells me Happy Dreams an' takes away the light, An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night! Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door, Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor; Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round So softly and so creepy-like they never make a sound! Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white But color ain't no difference when you see things at night! Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street, An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat, I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row, A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me—so! Oh, my! I wuz so skeered 'at time I never slep' a mite— Lucky thing I ain't a girl or I'd be skeered to death! An' so when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within; An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's big an' nice, I want to but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice! No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night! Edwin Markham Edwin Markham was born in Oregon City, Oregon, April 23, 1852, the youngest son of pioneer parents. His father died before he had reached his fifth year and in 1857 he was taken by his mother to a wild valley in the Suisun Hills in central California. Here he grew to young manhood; farming, broncho-riding, laboring on a cattle ranch, educating himself in the primitive country schools and supplementing his studies with whatever books he could procure. At eighteen he determined to be teacher and entered the State Normal School at San Jose. After some years he became superintendent and principal of various schools in that locality. Since childhood, Markham had been writing verses of no extraordinary merit, one of his earliest pieces being a typically Bryonic echo (A Dream of Chaos) full of the high-sounding fustian of the period. Several years before he uttered his famous challenge, Markham was writing poems of protest, insurrectionary in theme but conventional in effect. Suddenly, in 1899, a new force surged through him; a sense of outrage at the inequality of human struggle voiced itself in the sweeping and sonorous poem, "The Man with the Hoe." (See Preface.) Inspired by Millet's painting, Markham made the bowed, broken French peasant a symbol of the poverty-stricken toiler in all lands-his was a protest not against labor but the drudgery, the soul-destroying exploitation of labor. "The Yeo |