t 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.

And of all his visitors the most constant and appreciative were
children. These he never sent away without some bright word, and
he rarely sent them away at all. Nowhere could they find such an
entertaining playmate as he--one who would tell them such wonderful
stories and make up such funny rhymes for them on the spur of the
moment, and romp with them like one of themselves. It was in the
homely incidents of these visits, and the like intimacy with his own
children, that he found the subjects for his poems. He could voice the
feelings of a child, because he knew child life from always living it.

On his own childre