E.F. 
  J.F.B.

The same postal importunities awaited me at the Parker House while in Boston, and came near spoiling the negotiations in which I was engaged, for the News, for the, till then, unpublished correspondence between Mr. Blaine and Mr. Fischer, of the Mulligan letters notoriety.  My assignment as staff correspondent called for visits to New York, Albany, and Buffalo on my way home, and wherever I stopped I found proofs that Field was possessed of my itinerary and was bound that I should not escape his embarrassing attentions.

There is no need to tell that of all anniversaries of the year Christmas was the one that appealed most strongly to Eugene Field’s heart and ever-youthful fancy.  It was in his mind peculiarly the children’s festival, and his books bear all the testimony that is needed, from the first poem he acknowledged, “Christmas Treasures,” to the last word he wrote, that it filled his heart with rejoicings and love and good will.  But there is an incident in our friendship which shows how he managed to weave in with the blessed spirit of Christmas the elfish, cheery spirit of his own.

We had spent Christmas Eve, 1884, together, and, as usual, had expended our last dime in providing small tokens of remembrance for everyone within the circle of our immediate friends.  I parted from him at the midnight car, which he took for the North Side.  Going to the Sherman House, I caught the last elevator for my room on the top floor, and it was not long ere I was oblivious to all sublunary things.

Before it was fairly light the next morning I was disturbed and finally awakened by the sound of voices and subdued tittering in the corridor outside my door.  Then there came a knock, and I was told that there was a message for me.  Opening the door, my eyes were greeted with a huge home-knit stocking tacked to it with a two-pronged fork and filled with a collection of conventional presents for a boy—­a fair idea of which the reader can glean from the following lines in Field’s handwriting dangling from the toe: 

I prithee, gentle traveller, pause And view the work of Santa Claus.  Behold this sock that’s brimming o’er With good things near our Slason’s door; Before he went to bed last night He paddled out in robe of white, And hung this sock upon the wall Prepared for Santa Claus’s call.  And said, “Come, Santa Claus, and bring Some truck to fill this empty thing.”  Then back he went and locked the door, And soon was lost in dream and snore.

  The Saint arrived at half-past one—­
  Behold how well his work is done: 
  See what a wealth of food and toy
  He brought unto the sleeping boy: 
  An apple, fig, and orange, too,
  A jumping-jack of carmine hue,
  A book, some candy, and a cat,
  Two athletes in a wrestling spat,
  A nervous monkey on a stick,
  And honey cake that’s hard and thick. 
  Oh, what a wealth of joy is here
  To thrill the soul of Slason dear!