crazed with delight and enthusiasm.  And it argues volumes for the culture of our enterprising and fair city that not one word of English was heard among the encouraging and approving shouts that were hurled at the smiling prima donna.  Even the pork merchants and the grain dealers in the family circle vied with each other in hoarsely wafting Italian words of cheer at the triumphant Sembrich.  French was hardly good enough, although it was utilized by a few large manufacturers and butterine merchants who sat in the parquet, and one man was put out by the ushers because he so far forgot himself and the eclat of the occasion as to shout in vehement German:  “Mein Gott in himmel—­das ist ver tampt goot!” It was an ovation, but it was no more than Sembrich deserved—­bless her fat little buttons!

Remember, this was nearly twenty years ago.  It argues much for the saneness of Field’s enthusiasm, as well as for the perfection of Madame Sembrich’s methods, that she is still able to arouse a like enthusiasm in audiences where true dramatic instinct and high vocal art are valued as the rarest combination on the operatic stage.

Two manuscript poems in my scrap-book testify that another songster, early in Field’s Chicago life, enjoyed his friendship and inspired his pen along a line it was to travel many a tuneful metre.  The first, with frequent erasures and interlineations, bears date May 25th, 1894, and was inscribed, “To Mrs. Will J. Davis.”  It runs as follows: 

  A HUSHABY SONG

  The stars are twinkling in the skies,
    The earth is lost in slumber deep—­
  So hush, my sweet, and close your eyes
    And let me lull your soul to sleep;
  Compose thy dimpled hands to rest,
    And like a little birdling lie
  Secure within thy cosy nest
  Upon my mother breast
    And slumber to my lullaby;
    So hushaby, oh, hushaby.

  The moon is singing to the star
    The little song I sing to you,
  The father Sun has strayed afar—­
    As baby’s sire is straying, too,
  And so the loving mother moon
    Sings to the little star on high,
  And as she sings, her gentle tune
  Is borne to me, and thus I croon
    To thee, my sweet, that lullaby
    Of hushaby, oh, hushaby.

  There is a little one asleep
    That does not hear his mother’s song,
  But angel-watchers as I weep
    Surround his grave the night-tide long;
  And as I sing, my sweet, to you,
    Oh, would the lullaby I sing—­
  The same sweet lullaby he knew
  When slumbering on this bosom, too—­
    Were borne to him on angel wing! 
    So hushaby, oh, hushaby._

The second of these songs bears the same title as one of Field’s favorite tales, and is inscribed, “To Jessie Bartlett Davis on the first anniversary of her little boy’s birth, October 6th, 1884”: 

  THE SINGER MOTHER

  A Singer sang a glorious song
    So grandly clear and subtly sweet,
  That, with huzzas, the listening throng
    Cast down their tributes at her feet.