Dr. Gunsaulus of Chicago, who was one of Mr. Field’s most intimate friends, tells a story of Field’s first visit to his house that shows how quick the poet was to make himself at home with children.  For years the little ones in the Doctor’s household had heard of Eugene Field as a wonderful person; and when they were told that he had come to see them their delight knew no bounds, and they ran into the library to pay him homage.  It was in the evening, and, presumably, Field had already dined; but he told the children with his first breath that he wanted to know where the cookery was.  They, overjoyed at being asked a service they were able to render, trooped out into the kitchen with Field following.  The store of eatables was duly exposed, and Field seized upon a turkey, or what remained of one from dinner, and carried it into the dining-room.  There he seated himself at table, with the children on his knees and about him, and fell to with a good appetite, talking to the little ones all the time, telling them quaint stories, and making them listen with all their eyes and ears.  Having thus become good friends and put them quite at their ease, he spent the rest of the evening singing lullabies to them, and reciting his verses.  Naturally, before he went away the children had given him their whole hearts.  And this was his way with all the children with whom he came in contact.

One day on the cars Mr. Field chanced to sit near a workingman who had with him his wife and baby.  The father, it seemed, had heard Field lecture the night before, and had been deeply impressed.  With great deference he brought his child up to Field, and said:  “Now, little one, I want you to look at this gentleman.  He is Mr. Field, and when you grow up you’ll be glad to know that once upon a time he spoke to you.”  At this Field took the baby in his arms, and played with it for an hour, to the surprise and, of course, to the delight of the parents.

Of recent years Mr. Field rarely went to the office of the Chicago “News,” the paper for which during the last ten years he had written a daily column under the title of “Sharps and Flats,” but did most of his work at his home in Buena Park, which he called the Sabine Farm.  Here he began his day about nine o’clock, by having breakfast served to him in bed, after which he glanced through the papers, and then settled himself to his writing, with feet high on the table, and his pages before him laid neatly on a piece of plate glass.  He wrote with a fine-pointed pen, and had by him several different colored inks, with which he would illuminate his capitals and embellish his manuscript.  The first thing he did was his “Sharps and Flats” column, which occupied three or four hours, the task being usually finished by one o’clock.  His other work he did in the afternoons and evenings, writing at odd hours, sometimes in the garden if the weather was pleasant.  He was much interrupted by friends dropping in to see him; but, however busy, he welcomed whoever came, and would turn aside good-naturedly from his manuscript to entertain a visitor or to hear a story of misfortune.  After dinner he retired to his “den” to read; for he read constantly, whatever the distractions about him, and was much given to reading in bed.