“Are those flowers for Mr. Field?” she asked.  “Oh, I wish I could send him just one.  Won’t you, please, give me one flower?”

The florist placed a beautiful white rose in her little hand.  Then she turned and gave it to the lady, with the request:  “Please put it near Mr. Field with your flowers.”  And the little girl’s single rose—­the gift of love without money and without price—­was given the place of honor that day beyond the wealth of flowers that filled house and church with the incense of affection for the dead.

The funeral was a memorable demonstration of the common regard in which Field was held by all classes of citizens.  The services took place in the Fourth Presbyterian Church, from which hundreds turned sorrowfully away, because they could not gain admission.  The Rev. Thomas C. Hall, who had recently succeeded Dr. Stryker, one of Field’s intimate friends, who had been called to the presidency of Hamilton College, conducted the formal ceremonies, in which he was assisted by the Rev. Frank M. Bristol, who delivered the address, and the Rev. Frank W. Gunsaulus, who embodied his tribute to his friend in a poem remarkable for the felicity with which it passed in review many of the more noteworthy of Field’s lyrics.  Its opening stanzas read: 

  ’Midst rustling of leaves in the rich autumn air,
  At eve when man’s life is an unuttered prayer,
    There came through the dusk, each with torch shining bright,
    From far and from near, in his sorrow bedight,
  The old earth’s lone pilgrim o’er land and o’er wave. 
  Who gathered around their dear poet’s loved grave.

  With trumpet and drum, but in silence, they came—­
  Their paths were illumed by their torches’ mild flame,
    Whose soft lambent streams by love’s glory were lit;
    And where fairy knights and bright elves used to flit
  Across the wan world when the lights quivered dim,
  These watched at the grave, and were mourning for him._

That the spirit of those funeral services was neither local nor ephemeral is proved by the following poem, which, by a strange coincidence, came in a round-about way to my desk in the Record-Herald office from their author in Texarkana, Texas, the very day I transcribed the above lines from Dr. Gunsaulus’s “Songs of Night and Morning” into the manuscript of this book: 

  EUGENE FIELD

  1.

  Sleep well, dear poet of the heart! 
    In dreamless rest by cares unbroken;
  Thy mission filled, in peace depart. 
    Thy message to the world is spoken.

  2.

  Thy song the weary heart beguiles;
    Like generous wine it soothes and cheers,
  Yet oftentimes, amid our smiles,
    Thy pathos melts a soul to tears.

  3.

  In “Casey’s Tabble-Dote” no more
    Thy kindly humor will be heard;
  In silence now we must deplore
    The horrors of that “small hot bird.”