in
childhood, and inherited from a sturdy Puritan ancestry. From that
deep store of love and faith and reverence sprang the streams of his
happy songs, and ever was he putting into his tender verses those
ideas of the living God, the blessed Christ, the ministering angels
of immortal love, the happiness of heaven, which were instilled into
his-heart when but a boy.

Those who gathered at his house on the day of the funeral and looked
upon the form of the "Good Knight" in his last sleep saw a large white
rose in one of his hands. There was a touching story connected with
that rose: On the preceding afternoon a lady, who was a friend of
Field's, went to a florist's to order some flowers for the grave. A
poorly clad little girl was looking wistfully in at the window and
followed the lady into the store.

"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 s