Home > Author > Eugene Field
1 " All good and true book-lovers practice the pleasing and improving avocation of reading in bed ... No book can be appreciated until it has been slept with and dreamed over. "
― Eugene Field , The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac
2 " But I, when I undress meEach night, upon my kneesWill ask the Lord to bless meWith apple-pie and cheese. "
― Eugene Field
3 " No book can be appreciated until it has been slept with and dreamed over. "
4 " Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod, one night sailed off in a wooden shoe; Sailed off 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've come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea. Nets of silver and gold have we," said Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod. "
― Eugene Field , Wynken, Blynken, & Nod
5 " And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one's trundle-bed;So shut your eyes while Mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock on the misty sea. "
― Eugene Field ,
6 " Not so, however, with books, for books cannot change. A thousand years hence they are what you find them to-day, speaking the same words, holding forth the same cheer, the same promise, the same comfort; always constant, laughing with those who laugh and weeping with those who weep. "
7 " Let my temptation be a book, which I shall purchase, hold and keep. "
8 " 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. "
9 " The Little Peach"A little peach in the orchard grew,—A little peach of emerald hue;Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew.One day, passing that orchard through,That little peach dawned on the viewOf Johnny Jones and his sister Sue— Them two.Up at that peach a club they threw—Down from the stem on which it grewFell that peach of emerald hue. Mon Dieu!John took a bite and Sue a chew,And then the trouble began to brew,—Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue. Too true!Under the turf where the daisies grewThey planted John and his sister Sue,And their little souls to the angels flew,— Boo hoo!What of that peach of the emerald hue,Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew?Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. Adieu! "
10 " In the market of Clare, so cheery the glareOf the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there;That I take a delight on a Saturday nightIn walking that way and in viewing the sight.For it's here that one sees all the objects that please--New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese,For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys,And baubles galore while discretion enjoys--But here I forbear, for I really despairOf naming the wealth of the market of Clare.A rich man comes down from the elegant townAnd looks at it all with an ominous frown;He seems to despise the grandiloquent criesOf the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies;And sniffing he goes through the lanes that discloseMuch cause for disgust to his sensitive nose;And free of the crowd, he admits he is proudThat elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed;He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere,And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare.But the child that has come from the gloom of the slumIs charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum;He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies,And they seem to grow green and protrude with surpriseAt the goodies they vend and the toys without end--And it's oh! if he had but a penny to spend!But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amazeAt treasures that glitter and torches that blaze--What sense of despair in this world can compareWith that of the waif in the market of Clare?So, on Saturday night, when my custom invitesA stroll in old London for curious sights,I am likely to stray by a devious wayWhere goodies are spread in a motley array,The things which some eyes would appear to despiseImpress me as pathos in homely disguise,And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend,So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend);And the urchin shall share in my joy and declareThat there's beauty and good in the market of Clare. "
11 " My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooksAnd fragrance is over it all;For sweet is the smell of my old, old booksIn their places against the wall.Here is a folio that's grim with ageAnd yellow and green with mould;There's the breath of the sea on every pageAnd the hint of a stanch ship's hold.And here is a treasure from France la belleExhaleth a faint perfumeOf wedded lily and asphodelIn a garden of song abloom.And this wee little book of Puritan mienAnd rude, conspicuous printHath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen,Or, may be, of peppermint.In Walton the brooks a-babbling tellWhere the cheery daisy grows,And where in meadow or woodland dwellThe buttercup and the rose.But best beloved of books, I ween,Are those which one perceivesAre hallowed by ashes dropped betweenThe yellow, well-thumbed leaves.For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear,Till the treasured book is read;And the ashes betwixt the pages hereTell us of one long dead.But the gracious presence reappearsAs we read the book again,And the fragrance of precious, distant yearsFilleth the hearts of men.Come, pluck with me in my garden nooksThe posies that bloom for all;Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old booksIn their places against the wall! "
12 " The little toy dog is covered with dust,But sturdy and stanch he stands;And the little toy soldier is red with rust,And his musket molds in his hands.Time was when the little toy dog was newAnd the soldier was passing fair,And that was the time when our Little Boy BlueKissed 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 trundle-bedHe dreamed of the pretty toys.And as he was dreaming, an angel songAwakened our Little Boy Blue,--Oh, the years are many, 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 a little hand,The smile of a little face.And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,In the dust of that little chair,What has become of our Little Boy BlueSince he kissed them and put them there. "
13 " Nay, why discuss this summer heat,Of which vain people tell?Oh, sinner, rather were it meetTo fix thy thoughts on hell!The punishment ordained for youIn that infernal spotIs het by Satan's impish crewAnd kept forever hot.Sumatra might be reckoned nice,And Tophet passing cool,And Sodom were a cake of iceBeside that sulphur pool.An awful stench and dismal wailCome from the broiling souls,Whilst Satan with his fireproof tailStirs up the brimstone coals.Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meetThat thou shouldst ponder well,For what, oh, what, is worldly heatUnto the heat of hell? "
14 " A Dream Of Sunshine - ExcerptI'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the waysWhich people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase--The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lieAnd listen to the music of the brook that flutters by,Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's callWhere he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all;And by my side should be a friend--a trusty, genial friend,With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend;Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring--For _then_ I'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King!How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we floatUpon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat--Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be,As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee;Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs,And the devil's darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs;The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair(This latter metaphoric--we've no fimbriae to spare!);And I--transported by the bliss--shan't do a plaguey thingBut cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King!Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like,While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike;I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim--But it's worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with himIn grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks,And hear him tell of things he's seen or read of in his books--To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and outThe while he is discoursing of the things we talk about;A fountain-head refreshing--a clear, perennial springIs the genial conversation of John Lyle King! "
