He drank the Blood and Scratched again-- The little Girl cried out in vain-- He picked her up and Off he Flew-- This Naughty, Naughty Bugaboo! So, children when in Bed to-night, Don't let them Take away the Light, Or else the Awful Bugaboo May come and Fly away with You._ It is a far cry in time and a farther one in literary worth from "The Awful Bugaboo" of 1883 to "Seein' Things" of 1894. The sex of the victim is different, and the spirit of the incorrigible western tease gives way to the spirit of Puritanic superstition, but there can be no mistaking the persistence of the Bugaboo germ in the later verse: _An' yet I hate to go to bed, For when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said, Mother tells me "Happy Dreams!" and takes away the light, An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!_ * * * * * _Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white-- But the color ain't no difference when you're seein' things at night._ In all that Field wrote, whether in prose or rhyme, for the Denver Tribune nothing contributed to his literary reputation or gave promise of the place in American letters he was to attain, save one little bit of fugitive verse, which was for years to justify its title of "The Wanderer." It contains one of the prettiest, tenderest, most vitally poetic ideas that ever occurred to Eugene Field. And yet he deliberately disclaimed it in the moment of its conception and laid it, like a little foundling, at the door of Madame Modjeska. The expatriation of the Polish actress, between whom and Field there existed a singularly warm and enduring friendship, formed the basis for the allegory of the shell on the mountain, and doubtless suggested to him the humor, if not the sentiment, of attributing the poem to her and writing it in the first person. The circumstances of its publication justify its reproduction here, although I suppose it is one of the most familiar of Field's poems. I copy it from his manuscript: _THE WANDERER Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, I found a shell, And to my listening ear this lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seem'd to sing-- Ever a tale of ocean seem'd to tell. How came the shell upon the mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too careless hand-- Whether there cast when oceans swept the land, Ere the Eternal had ordained the day? Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, One song it sang; Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, Sang of the restless sea, profound and wide-- Ever with echoes of the ocean rang. And as the shell upon the mountain height Sang of the sea, So do I ever, leagues and leagues away-- So do I ever, wandering where I may, Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee!_