d butterine merchants who sat in the
parquet, and one man was put out by the ushers because he so far
forgot himself and the eclat of the occasion as to shout in vehement
German: "Mein Gott in himmel--das ist ver tampt goot!" It was an
ovation, but it was no more than Sembrich deserved--bless her fat
little buttons!

Remember, this was nearly twenty years ago. It argues much for the
saneness of Field's enthusiasm, as well as for the perfection of
Madame Sembrich's methods, that she is still able to arouse a like
enthusiasm in audiences where true dramatic instinct and high vocal
art are valued as the rarest combination on the operatic stage.

Two manuscript poems in my scrap-book testify that another songster,
early in Field's Chicago life, enjoyed his friendship and inspired his
pen along a line it was to travel many a tuneful metre. The first,
with frequent erasures and interlineations, bears date May 25th, 1894,
and was inscribed, "To Mrs. Will J. Davis." It runs as follows:

_A HUSHABY SONG

The stars are twinkling in the skies,
The earth is lost in slumber deep--
So hush, my sweet, and close your eyes
And let me lull your soul to sleep;
Compose thy dimpled hands to rest,
And like a little birdling lie
Secure within thy cosy nest
Upon my mother breast
And slumber to my lullaby;
So hushaby, oh, hushaby.

The moon is singing to the star
The little song I sing to you,
The father Sun has strayed afar--
As baby's sire is straying, too,
And so the loving mother moon
Sings to the little star on high,
And as she sings, her gentle tune
Is borne to me, and thus I croon
To thee, my sweet, that lullaby
Of hushaby, oh, hushaby.

There is a little one asleep
That does not hear his mother's song,
But angel-watchers as I weep
Surround his grave the night-tide long;
And as I sing, my sweet, to you,
Oh, would the lullaby I sing--
The same sweet lullaby he knew
When slumbering on this bosom, too--
Were borne to him on angel wing!
So hushaby, oh, hushaby._

The second of these songs bears the same title as one of Field's
favorite tales, and is inscribed, "To Jessie Bartlett Davis on the
first anniversary of her little boy's birth, October 6th, 1884":

_THE SINGER MOTHER

A Singer sang a glorious song
So grandly clear and subtly sweet,
That, with huzzas, the listening throng
Cast down their tribut