A mighty good sausage stuffer was spoiled when the man became a poet. — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
What smells so? Has somebody been burning a Rag, or is there a Dead Mule in the Back yard? No, the Man is Smoking a Five-Cent Cigar. — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
A mighty good sausage stuffer was spoiled when the man became a poet. — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
No book can be appreciated until it has been slept with and dreamed over. — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
I'd like a stocking made for a giant, And a meeting house full of toys, Then I'd go out in a happy hunt For… — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe, - Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of… — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
All good and true book-lovers practice the pleasing and improving avocation of reading in bed ... No book can be appreciated until it has… — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine, A certain inspitation which I cannot well define. — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
Mr. Clarke played the King all evening as though under constant fear that someone else was about to play the Ace. — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up… — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
Ideas came with explosive immediacy, like an instant birth. Human thought is like a monstrous pendulum; it keeps swinging from one extreme to the… — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
But I, when I undress me Each night, upon my knees Will ask the Lord to bless me With apple-pie and cheese. — Eugene Field Copy Share Image
