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قراءة كتاب McClure's Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 3, August, 1893
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
I wrote was ‘Christmas Treasures.’ I wrote that one night to fill in a chink in the paper.”
“Give me a touch of it?” asked his friend.
He chewed his cigar in the effort to remember. “I don’t read it much. I put it with the collection for the sake of old times.” He read a few lines of it, and read it extremely well, before returning to his history.
CHRISTMAS TREASURES.
I count my treasures o’er with care,—
The little toy my darling knew,
A little sock of faded hue,
A little lock of golden hair.
Long years ago this holy time,
My little ones—my all to me—
Sat robed in white upon my knee,
And heard the merry Christmas chime.
“Tell me, my little golden-head,
If Santa Claus should come to-night,
What shall he bring my baby bright,—
What treasure for my boy?” I said.
Then he named this little toy,
While in his round and mournful eyes
There came a look of sweet surprise,
That spake his quiet, trustful joy.
And as he lisped his evening prayer,
He asked the boon with childish grace,
Then, toddling to the chimney-place,
He hung this little stocking there.
That night, while lengthening shadows crept,
I saw the white-winged angels come
With singing to our lowly home,
And kiss my darling as he slept.
They must have heard his little prayer,
For in the morn with rapturous face,
He toddled to the chimney-place,
And found this little treasure there.
They came again one Christmas-tide,—
That angel host, so fair and white!
And singing all that glorious night,
They lured my darling from my side.
A little sock, a little toy,
A little lock of golden hair,
The Christmas music on the air,
A watching for my baby boy!
But if again that angel train
And golden head come back to me,
To bear me to Eternity,
My watching will not be in vain!
“I went next to the Kansas City ‘Times’ as managing editor. I wrote there that ‘Little Peach,’ which still chases me round the country.”
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 view
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue,
Them two.
Up at that peach a club they threw,
Down from the stem on which it grew,
Fell 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 grew,
They 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!
“I went to the ‘Denver Tribune’ next, and stayed there till 1883. The most conspicuous thing I did there, was the burlesque primer series. ‘See the po-lice-man. Has he a club? Yes he has a club,’ etc. These were so widely copied and pirated that I put them into a little book which is very rare, thank heaven. I hope I have the only copy of it. The other thing which rose above the level of my ordinary work was a bit of verse, ‘The Wanderer,’ which I credited to Modjeska, and which has given her no little annoyance.”
THE WANDERER.
Upon a mountain height, far from the sea,
I found a shell,
And to my listening ear the lonely thing
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing,
Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.
How came the shell upon that mountain height?
Ah, who can say
Whether there dropped by some too careless hand,
Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land,
Ere the Eternal had ordained the day?
Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep,
One song it sang,
Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide,
Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide,
Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.
And as the shell upon the mountain height
Sings of the sea,
So do I ever, leagues and leagues away,
So do I ever, wandering where I may,
Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee.
“That brings you up to Chicago, doesn’t it?”
“In 1883 Melville Stone asked me to join him on the ‘News,’ and I did. Since then my life has been uneventful.”
“I might not think so. Did you establish the column ‘Sharps and Flats’ at once?”
“Yes. I told Stone I’d write a good deal of musical matter, and the name seemed appropriate. We tried to change it several times, but no go.”
“I first saw your work in the ‘News.’ I was attracted by your satirical studies of Chicago. I don’t always like what you write, but I liked your war against sham.”
Field became serious at once, and leaned towards the other man in an attitude of great earnestness. The deepest note in the man’s voice came out. “I hate a sham or a fraud; not so much a fraud, for a fraud means brains very often, but a sham makes me mad clear through,” he said savagely. His fighting quality came out in the thrust of the chin. Here was the man whom the frauds and shams fear.
“That is evident. But I don’t think the people make the broadest application of your satires. They apply them to Chicago. There is quite a feeling. I suppose you know about this. They say you’ve hurt Chicago art.”
“I hope I have, so far as the bogus art and imitation culture of my city is concerned. As a matter of fact the same kind of thing exists in Boston and New York, only they’re used to it there. I’ve jumped on that crowd of faddists, I’ll admit, as hard as I could, but I don’t think anyone can say I’ve ever willingly done a real man or woman an injury. If I have, I’ve always tried to square the thing up.” Here was the man’s fairness, kindliness of heart, coming to the surface in good simple way.
The other man was visibly impressed with his friend’s earnestness, but he pursued his course. “You’ve had offers to go East, according to the papers.”
“Yes,