It was in 1878 that Mr. Field first began writing verse, and, for a young poet, his productions were highly complimented. His first effort was a little poem of ten stanzas, which was printed in a St. Louis paper. It was entitled: THE CHRISTMAS TREASURES. I count my treasures o’er with care-- A little toy that baby knew-- A little lock of faded hue-- A little lock of golden hair. Long years ago this Christmas time, My little one--my all to me-- Sat, robed in white, upon my knee, And heard the Merry Christmas chime. “Tell me, my little golden-head, If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright-- What treasure for my boy?” I said. And then he named the little toy, While in his round and truthful eyes There came a look of glad surprise That spoke his trustful, childish joy. And as he lisped his evening pray’r, He asked the boon with baby grace, And toddling to the chimney place, He hung his little stocking there. That night, as length’ning shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come With music to our humble home And kiss my darling as he slept. They must have heard his baby pray’r, For in the morn, with glowing face, He toddled to the chimney place And found the little treasure there. They came again one Christmas tide-- That angel host, so fair and white-- And, singing all the Christmas night, They lured my darling from my side. A little sock, a little toy-- A little lock of golden hair-- The Christmas music on the air-- A watching for my baby boy. But if again that angel train And golden-head come back for me, To bear me to eternity, My watching will not be in vain. Other efforts in a similar vein followed, of which the following is a fair sample: THE PRAYER. Long years have passed since that sweet time When first I breathed upon the air My simple little baby prayer-- A prayer with earnestness sublime; Since first my mother clasped my hands, And bade me, ere I went to sleep, Pray God my little soul to keep, Or take to dwell in heav’nly land. And now, tho’ years on years have fled, And tho’ the mother’s passed away, And tho’ my head be bowed and gray, The little prayer that then I said Comes floating back on angel wing, As if, upon the other shore, A little child had lisped it o’er For God’s own messengers to bring. His work in a lighter vein is fairly represented by the following: THE SAME DEAR HAND. The bells ring out a happy sound, The earth is mantled o’er with white, It is the merry Christmas night, And love and mirth and joy abound. And here sit you and here sit I; I should be happiest in the land, For, oh, I hold the same dear hand I’ve held for many a year gone by!