The applause became universal--it spread like wild-fire. The vast audience seemed crazed with delight and enthusiasm. And it argues volumes for the culture of our enterprising and fair city that not one word of English was heard among the encouraging and approving shouts that were hurled at the smiling prima donna. Even the pork merchants and the grain dealers in the family circle vied with each other in hoarsely wafting Italian words of cheer at the triumphant Sembrich. French was hardly good enough, although it was utilized by a few large manufacturers and butterine merchants who sat in the parquet, and one man was put out by the ushers because he so far forgot himself and the éclat 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