he kind permission of the publishers, we reproduce
here a few of the best known of the poems, adding pictures of
the particular child friends of Mr. Field who inspired them. The
selections are from the last two volumes--"With Trumpet and Drum"
and "Love-Songs of Childhood." The pictures are from Mr. Field's own
collection, which chanced to be in New York at the time of his death;
and the identifying phrases quoted under several of them were written
on the backs of the photographs by Mr. Field's own hand.

WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM.

With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It's this way and that way they circle and file--
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way, and after a while
They march straight into this heart of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!

Come on, little people, from cot and from hall--
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,
As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;
It will rock you away to the dreamland above--
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,
And jollier still is it bound to become
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum.

So come; though I see not _his_ dear little face
And hear not _his_ voice in this jubilant place,
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your play--
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine
Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!
And my heart it is lonely--so, little folk, come,
March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!

THE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOT.

Up yonder in Buena Park
There is a famous spot,
In legend and in history
Yelept the Waller Lot.

There children play in daytime
And lovers stroll by dark,
For 'tis the goodliest trysting-place
In all Buena Park.

Once on a time that beauteous maid,
Sweet little Sissy Knott,
Took out her pretty doll to walk
Within the Waller Lot.

While thus she fared, from Ravenswood
Came Injuns o'er the plain,
And seized upon that beauteous maid
And rent her doll in twain.

Oh, 'twas a piteous thing to hear
Her lamentations wild;
She tore her golden curls and cried:
"My child! My child! My child!"

Alas, what cared those Injun chiefs
How bitterly wailed she?