Thy song the weary heart beguiles; Like generous wine it soothes and cheers, Yet oftentimes, amid our smiles, Thy pathos melts a soul to tears. 3. In "Casey's Tabble-Dote" no more Thy kindly humor will be heard; In silence now we must deplore The horrors of that "small hot bird." 4. The "Restauraw" is silent now, The "Conversazzhyony's" over; And "Red Hoss Mountain's" gloomy brow Looks down where lies "Three-fingered Hoover." 5. Our friend "Perfesser Vere de Blaw" No longer on the "Steenway" prances With "Mizzer-Reery" "Opry-Boof," And old familiar songs and dances. 6. Old "Red floss Mountain's" wrapped in gloom, And "Silas Pettibone's shef-doover" Has long since vanished from the room With "Casey" and "Three-fingered Hoover." 7. Yet will they live! Though Field depart; Thousands his memory will cherish; The gentle poet of the heart Shall live till life and language perish. C.S.T._ The initials are those of Mr. Charles S. Todd, of Texarkana, Texas; and the poem, besides testifying to the wide-spread sorrow over Field's death, bears witness to the fact that his western dialect verse had a hold on the popular heart only second to his lullabies and poems of childhood. From the Fourth Presbyterian Church Field's body was borne to its last resting-place, in Graceland cemetery. It is a quiet spot where the poet is interred, in a lovely little glade, away from the sorrowful processions of the main driveways. Leafy branches wave above his grave, shielding it from the glare of the sun in summer and the rude sweep of the winds in winter. The birds flit across it from tree to tree, casting "strange, flutterin' shadders" over the grave of him who loved them so well. And there, one day in the early summer, another bird-lover, Edward B. Clark, heard a wood-thrush, the sweetest of American songsters, singing its vesper hymn, and was moved out of his wont himself to sing: _THE TRIBUTE OF THE THRUSH A bird voice comes from the maple Across the green of the sod, Breaking the silence of evening That rests on this "acre of God." 'Tis the note of the bird of the woodland, Of thickets and sunless retreats; Yet the plashing of sunlit waters Is the sound of the song it repeats. Why sing you here in the open, O gold-tongued bird of the shade; What spirit moves you to echo This hymn from the angels strayed? And then as the shadows lengthened, The thrush made its answer clear: "There was void in the world of music, A singer lies voiceless here."_ Thus endeth this inadequate study of my gentle and joyous friend, "the good knight, _sans peur et sans monnaie_." APPENDIX