Chapter 2

THE GOOD KNIGHT SLOSSON'S CASTLE.

The good knight Slosson from a watch towerof his castle desenith and salutith the goodKnight Eugene, sans peur et sans monie.

Early in the spring of 1885 Field was inspired, by an account I gave him of a snow-shoeing party my sister had described in one of her letters, to compose the series of pen-and-ink tableaux reproduced on pages 30 and 31.

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.All that is left of poor Eddie.

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.From drawings by Eugene Field.

No. 1—The fair Mary Matilda skimming over the hills and dales of New Brunswick.No. 2—Lovelorn Eddie Martin in hot pursuit of same.No. 3—Lone pine in the deserted vale where the musquash watches for his prey.No. 4—Horrible discovery made by the fair Mary Matilda upon her return to the lone pine in the secluded vale.No. 5—All that is left of poor Eddie.

No. 1—The fair Mary Matilda skimming over the hills and dales of New Brunswick.

No. 2—Lovelorn Eddie Martin in hot pursuit of same.

No. 3—Lone pine in the deserted vale where the musquash watches for his prey.

No. 4—Horrible discovery made by the fair Mary Matilda upon her return to the lone pine in the secluded vale.

No. 5—All that is left of poor Eddie.

An inkling as to the meaning of these weird pictures may be gleaned from the letter I sent along with them to my sister, in which I wrote:

I was telling Field the story of your last snow-shoeing party when he was prompted to the enclosed tragedy in five acts. He hopes that you will not mistake the stars for mosquitoes, nor fail to comprehend the terrible fate that has overtaken Eddy Martin at the mouth of the voracious musquash, whose retreating tail speaks so eloquently of his toothsome repast. The lone pine tree is a thing that you will enjoy; also the expression of horror on your own face when you behold the empty boots of Eddy. There is a tragedy too deep for tears in the silent monuments of Field's ignorance of moccasins.

In explanation of the final scene in this "sad, eventful history" it should be said that "poor Eddie" was a harmless, half-witted giant who sawed the cord wood and did odd chores about my father's place. This gives significance to the pendant buck-saw and the lonely wood-horse. His lance rusts upon the wall and his steed stands silent in the stall. The reader should not pass from these examples of Field's humor with pen and ink without marking the changes that come across the face of the moon as the tragedy unfolds.

That Field found a congenial spirit and correspondent in my sister is further evidenced in the following letter written in gamboge brown:

CHICAGO, July the 2d, 1885.Dear Miss:In order that you may no longer groan under the erroneous impression which you appear to harbor, touching my physique, I remit to you a photograph of a majority of myself. The photograph was made last December, when I was, so to speak, at my perihelion in the matter of avoirdupois. You may be gratified to know that I have not shrunken much since that time. I have taken the timely precaution to label the picture in order that none of your Fredericton people thumbing over your domestic album shall mistake me for either a young Episcopal rector or a rising young negro minstrel.The several drawings and paintings I have sent you ever and anon at your brother's expense are really not the best samples of my art. Mr. Walter Cranston Larned, a wealthy young tennis player of this city, has most of mychef d'oeuvresin his private gallery. I hope to be able to paint you a landscape in oil very soon. There is no sacrifice I would not be willing to make for one whom I esteem so highly as I do you. It might be just as well not to read this line to the old folks. Your brother Slosson has recently developed an insatiate passion for horse racing, and in consequence of his losses at pools I find him less prone to regale me with sumptuous cheer than he was before the racing season broke out. The prince, too, has blossomed out as a patron of the track, and I am slowly becoming more and more aware that this is a bitter world. I think I may safely say that I look wholly to such noble, generous young women as you and your sisters to preserve in me a consciousness that there is in life such a boon as generosity.You will observe (if you have any eye for color) that I pen you these lines in gamboge brown; this is because Fourth of July is so near at hand. This side of the line we are fairly reeking with patriotism just now; even that mugwump-alien—your brother—contemplates celebrating in a fitting manner the anniversary of our country's independence ofBritish Tyranny!Will you please slap Bessie for me—the pert minx! I heard of her remarks about my story of Mary Matilda and the Prince.Believe me as ever,Sincerely yours,EUGENE FIELD.

CHICAGO, July the 2d, 1885.

Dear Miss:

In order that you may no longer groan under the erroneous impression which you appear to harbor, touching my physique, I remit to you a photograph of a majority of myself. The photograph was made last December, when I was, so to speak, at my perihelion in the matter of avoirdupois. You may be gratified to know that I have not shrunken much since that time. I have taken the timely precaution to label the picture in order that none of your Fredericton people thumbing over your domestic album shall mistake me for either a young Episcopal rector or a rising young negro minstrel.

The several drawings and paintings I have sent you ever and anon at your brother's expense are really not the best samples of my art. Mr. Walter Cranston Larned, a wealthy young tennis player of this city, has most of mychef d'oeuvresin his private gallery. I hope to be able to paint you a landscape in oil very soon. There is no sacrifice I would not be willing to make for one whom I esteem so highly as I do you. It might be just as well not to read this line to the old folks. Your brother Slosson has recently developed an insatiate passion for horse racing, and in consequence of his losses at pools I find him less prone to regale me with sumptuous cheer than he was before the racing season broke out. The prince, too, has blossomed out as a patron of the track, and I am slowly becoming more and more aware that this is a bitter world. I think I may safely say that I look wholly to such noble, generous young women as you and your sisters to preserve in me a consciousness that there is in life such a boon as generosity.

You will observe (if you have any eye for color) that I pen you these lines in gamboge brown; this is because Fourth of July is so near at hand. This side of the line we are fairly reeking with patriotism just now; even that mugwump-alien—your brother—contemplates celebrating in a fitting manner the anniversary of our country's independence ofBritish Tyranny!

Will you please slap Bessie for me—the pert minx! I heard of her remarks about my story of Mary Matilda and the Prince.

Believe me as ever,

Sincerely yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

The story of "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince" was the third in what Field called his "Aunt Mary Matilda Series." The first of these was "The Lonesome Little Shoe" (see "The Holy Cross and Other Tales" of his collected works), which, after it was printed in the Morning News, was cut out and pasted in a little brown manila pamphlet, with marginal illustrations of the most fantastic nature. The title page of this precious specimen of Fieldiana is characteristic:

THE LONESOME LITTLE SHOE:

BEINGA WONDERFUL NARRATIVE CULLED FROMTHEPOSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF EUGENE FIELD

1885.

PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED

DEDICATED TO AUNT MARY MATILDA'S PRESENTAND FUTURE NEPHEWS AND NIECES,THEIR HEIRS, ASSIGNSAND ASSIGNEESFOREVER

CANADIAN TRACT SOCIETY

(COPYRIGHT)

What became of the second of this wonderful series no one knows. The third, "How Mary Won a Prince," is the only instance that has come under my notice where Field put any of his compositions in typewriter. This was done to make the first edition consist of a single copy. The prince and hero of this romantic tale was our associate, John F. Ballantyne, and the story itself was "Inscribed to the beautiful, accomplished, amiable and ever-to-be-revered, Miss Mary Matilda Thompson, of Frederickton, York County, New Brunswick, Dominion of Canada, 1885." It was said to be "elegantly illustrated," of which the reader may judge from the accompanying reproductions.

HOW MARY MATILDA WON A PRINCE.A gypsy had told Mary Matilda that she would marry a prince. This was when Mary Matilda was a little girl. She had given the gypsy a nice, fresh bun, and the gypsy was so grateful that she said she would tell the little girl's fortune, so Mary Matilda held out her hand and the old gypsy looked at it very closely."You are very generous," said the gypsy, "and your generosity will cause a prince to fall in love with you; the prince will rescue you from a great danger and you will wed the prince."Having uttered these strange words, the gypsy went away and shortly after was sentenced to ten years in the penitentiary for having robbed a hen-roost.Mary Matilda grew from childhood to be the most beautiful maiden in all the province; none was so beautiful and so witty as she. Withal she was so amiable and benevolent that all loved her, even those who envied her the transcendent charms with which she was endowed. As the unfortunate gypsy had predicted, Mary Matilda was the most generous maiden on earth and the fame of her goodness was wide-spread.Now Mary Matilda had an older brother who had gone to a far-off country to become rich, and to accomplish those great political reforms to which his ambition inclined him. His name was Slosson, and in the far-off country he fell in with two young men of his own age who were of similar ambition. But they were even poorer than Slosson, and what particularly grieved them was the fact that their lineage was obscured by dark clouds of doubt. That is to say, they were unable to determine with any degree of positiveness whether they were of noble extraction; their parents refused to inform them, and consequently they were deeply distressed, as you can well imagine. Slosson was much charmed with their handsome bearing, chivalric ways, and honorable aspirations, and his pity was evoked by their poverty and their frequent sufferings for the very requirements of life. Freely he shared his little all with them, in return for which they gave him their gratitude and affection. One day Slosson wrote a letter to his sister Mary Matilda, saying: "A hard winter is coming on and our store of provisions is nearly exhausted. My two friends are in much distress and so am I. We have accomplished a political revolution, but under the civil service laws we can hardly expect an office."Mary Matilda was profoundly touched by this letter. Her tender heart bled whenever she thought of her absent brother, and instinctively her sympathies went out toward his two companions in distress. So in her own quiet, maidenly way she set about devising a means for the relief of the unfortunate young men. She made a cake, a beautiful cake stuffed with plums and ornamented with a lovely design representing the lost Pleiad, which you perhaps know was a young lady who lived long ago and acquired eternal fame by dropping out of the procession and never getting back again. Well, Mary Matilda put this delicious cake in a beautiful paper collar-box and sent it in all haste to her brother and his two friends in the far-off country. Great was Slosson's joy upon receiving this palatable boon, and great was the joy of his two friends, who it must be confessed were on the very brink of starvation. The messages Mary Matilda received from the grateful young men, who owed their rescue to her, must have pleased her, although the consciousness of a noble deed is better than words of praise.But one day Mary Matilda got another letter from her brother Slosson which plunged her into profound melancholy. "Weep with me, dear Sister," he wrote, "for one of my companions, Juan, has left me. He was the youngest, and I fear some great misfortune has befallen him, for he was ever brooding over the mystery of his lineage. Yesterday he left us and we have not seen him since. He took my lavender trousers with him."As you may easily suppose, Mary Matilda was much cast down by this fell intelligence. She drooped like a blighted lily and wept."What can ail our Mary Matilda?" queried her mother. "The roses have vanished from her cheeks, the fire has gone out of her orbs, and her step has lost its old-time cunning. I am much worried about her."They all noticed her changed appearance. Even Eddie Martin, the herculean wood-sawyer, observed the dejection with which the sorrow-stricken maiden emerged from the house and handed him his noontide rations of nutcakes and buttermilk. But Mary Matilda spoke of the causes of her woe to none of them. In silence she brooded over the mystery of Juan's disappearance.When the winter came and the soft, fair snow lay ten or twelve feet deep on the level on the forest and stream, on wold and woodland, little Bessie once asked Mary Matilda if she would not take her out for a walk. Now little Bessie was Mary Matilda's niece, and she was such a sweet little girl that Mary Matilda could never say "no" to anything she asked."Yes, Bessie," said Mary Matilda, "if you will bundle up nice and warm I will take you out for a short walk of twenty or thirty miles."So Bessie bundled up nice and warm. Then Mary Matilda went out on the porch and launched her two snow-shoes and got into them and harnessed them to her tiny feet."Where are you going?" asked Eddie Martin, pausing in his work and leaning his saw against a slab of green maple."I am going to take Bessie out for a short walk," replied Mary Matilda."Are you not afraid to go alone?" said Eddie Martin. "You know the musquashes are very thick, and this spell of winter weather has made them very hungry and ferocious.""No, I am not afraid of the musquashes," replied Mary Matilda. But shewasafraid of them: only she did not want to tell Eddie Martin so, for fear he would want to go with her. This was the first and only wrong story Mary Matilda ever told.Having grasped little Bessie by the hand, Mary Matilda stepped over the fence and was soon lost to view. Scarcely had she gone when a tall, thin, haggard looking young man came down the street and leaned over the back gate."Can you tell me," he asked in weary tones, "whether the beautiful Mary Matilda abides hereabouts?"THE PRINCE ASKING EDDIE MARTIN ABOUT THE FAIR MARY MATILD."She lives here," replied Eddie Martin, "but she has gone for a walk with little Bessie.""Whither did they drift?" queried the mysterious unknown."They started toward the Nashwaaksis," said Eddie Martin. "And I sadly fear the deadly musquash will pursue them."The stranger turned pale and trembled at the suggestion."Will you lend me your saw for a brief period?" he asked."Why?" inquired Eddie Martin."To rescue the fair Mary Matilda from the musquashes," replied the stranger. Then he seized the saw, and with pale face started in the direction Mary Matilda had gone.Meanwhile Mary Matilda had crossed the Nashwaaksis and was speeding in a southerly course toward the Nashwaak. The gentle breeze favored her progress, and as she sailed along, the snow danced like frozen feathers around her."Oh, how nice!" cried little Bessie."Yes, this clear, fresh, cold air gives one new life," said Mary Matilda.They now came to the Nashwaak, on the farther bank of which were crouched a pack of hungry musquashes eagerly awaiting the approach of Mary Matilda and little Bessie."Hush," whispered the old big musquash. "Make no noise or they will hear us and make good their escape." But just then another musquash carelessly trod on the big musquash's tail and the old musquash roared with pain."What was that?" cried little Bessie.Mary Matilda had heard the strange cry. She paused to listen. Then she saw the pack of musquashes in the snow on the farthest bank of the Nashwaak. Oh, how frightened she was! but with a shrill cry she seized Bessie in her arms, and, turning swiftly about, fled in the direction of McLeod hill. The musquashes saw her retreating, and with a howl of commingled rage and disappointment they started in hot pursuit. They ran like mad, as only starving musquashes can run. Every moment they gained on the maiden and her human charge until at last they were at her very heels. Mary Matilda remembered she had some beechnuts in her pocket. She reached down, grasped a handful of the succulent fruit and cast it to her insatiate pursuers. It stayed their pursuit for a moment, but in another moment they were on her track again, howling demoniacally. Another handful of the beechnuts went to the ravenous horde, and still another. By this time Mary Matilda had reached McLeod hill and was crossing the Nashwaaksis. Her imagination pictured a scuttled brigantine lying in the frozen stream. On its slippery deck stood a pirate, waving a gory cutlass."THE PRINCE'S COAT-OF-ARMS—FLIGHT OF THE FAIR MARY MATILDA—THE AGGRAVATING MIRAGE.""Ha, ha, ho, ho!" laughed the gory and bearded pirate."Save me!" cried Mary Matilda. "My beechnuts are all gone!""Throw them the baby!" answered the bearded pirate, "and save yourself! Ha, ha, ho, ho!"Should she do it? Should she throw little Bessie to the devouring musquashes? No, she could not stoop to that ungenerous deed."No, base pirate!" she cried. "I would not so demean myself!"But the scuttled brigantine had disappeared. Mary Matilda saw it was a mirage. Meanwhile the musquashes gained on her. The beechnuts had whetted their appetite. It seemed as if they were sure of their prey. But all at once they stopped, and Mary Matilda stopped, too. They were confronted by a haggard but manly form. It was the mysterious young stranger, and he had a saw which Eddie Martin had lent him. His aspect was so terrible that the musquashes turned to flee, but they were too late. The mysterious stranger laid about him so vigorously with his saw that the musquashes soon were in bits. Here was a tail, there a leg; here an ear, there a nose—oh, it was a rare potpourri, I can tell you! Finally the musquashes all were dead."To whom am I indebted for my salvation?" inquired Mary Matilda, blushing deeply."Alas, I do not know," replied the wan stranger. "I am called Juan, but my lineage is enveloped in gloom."At once Mary Matilda suspected he was her brother's missing friend, and this suspicion was confirmed by the lavender trousers he wore. She questioned him closely, and he told her all. Bessie heard all he said, and she could tell you more particularly than I can about it. I only know that Juan confessed that, having tasted of Mary Matilda's cake, he fell deeply in love with her and had come all this distance to ask her to be his, indissolubly."Still," said he, sadly, "'tis too much to ask you to link your destiny with one whose lineage is not known."By this time they had reached the back-yard gate. Eddie Martin was sitting on the wood-pile talking with a weird old woman. The weird old woman scrutinized Mary Matilda closely."Do you know me?" she asked."No," said Mary Matilda."I have been serving ten years for a mild indiscretion," said the old woman, sadly. "I am the gypsy who told your fortune many years ago."Then the old gypsy's keen eyes fell on Juan, the stranger. She gave a fierce cry."I have seen that face before!" she cried, trembling with emotion. "When I knew it, it was a baby face; but the spectacles are still the same!"Juan also quivered with emotion."Have you a thistle mark on your left arm?" demanded the old gypsy, fiercely."Yes," he answered, hoarsely; and pulling up the sleeve of his linen ulster he exposed the beautiful emblem on his emaciated arm."It is as I suspected!" cried the old gypsy. "You are the Prince of Lochdougal, heir presumptive to the estates and titles of the Stuarts." And with these words the old gypsy swooned in Eddie Martin's arms.When she came to, she explained that she had been a stewardess in the Lochdougal castle at Inverness when Juan's parents had been exiled for alleged conspiracy against the queen. Juan was then a prattling babe; but even then he gave promise of a princely future. Since his arrival at maturity his parents had feared to impart to him the secret of his lineage, lest he might return to Scotland and attempt to recover his estates, thereby incurring the resentment of the existing dynasty.Of course when she heard of his noble lineage, Mary Matilda could do naught but accept the addresses of the brave prince. He speedily regained his health and flesh under the grateful influences of her cuisine. The wedding day has been set, and little Bessie is to be one of her bridesmaids. The brother Slosson is to be present, and he is to bring with him his other friend, whose name he will not mention, since his lineage is still in doubt.

HOW MARY MATILDA WON A PRINCE.

A gypsy had told Mary Matilda that she would marry a prince. This was when Mary Matilda was a little girl. She had given the gypsy a nice, fresh bun, and the gypsy was so grateful that she said she would tell the little girl's fortune, so Mary Matilda held out her hand and the old gypsy looked at it very closely.

"You are very generous," said the gypsy, "and your generosity will cause a prince to fall in love with you; the prince will rescue you from a great danger and you will wed the prince."

Having uttered these strange words, the gypsy went away and shortly after was sentenced to ten years in the penitentiary for having robbed a hen-roost.

Mary Matilda grew from childhood to be the most beautiful maiden in all the province; none was so beautiful and so witty as she. Withal she was so amiable and benevolent that all loved her, even those who envied her the transcendent charms with which she was endowed. As the unfortunate gypsy had predicted, Mary Matilda was the most generous maiden on earth and the fame of her goodness was wide-spread.

Now Mary Matilda had an older brother who had gone to a far-off country to become rich, and to accomplish those great political reforms to which his ambition inclined him. His name was Slosson, and in the far-off country he fell in with two young men of his own age who were of similar ambition. But they were even poorer than Slosson, and what particularly grieved them was the fact that their lineage was obscured by dark clouds of doubt. That is to say, they were unable to determine with any degree of positiveness whether they were of noble extraction; their parents refused to inform them, and consequently they were deeply distressed, as you can well imagine. Slosson was much charmed with their handsome bearing, chivalric ways, and honorable aspirations, and his pity was evoked by their poverty and their frequent sufferings for the very requirements of life. Freely he shared his little all with them, in return for which they gave him their gratitude and affection. One day Slosson wrote a letter to his sister Mary Matilda, saying: "A hard winter is coming on and our store of provisions is nearly exhausted. My two friends are in much distress and so am I. We have accomplished a political revolution, but under the civil service laws we can hardly expect an office."

Mary Matilda was profoundly touched by this letter. Her tender heart bled whenever she thought of her absent brother, and instinctively her sympathies went out toward his two companions in distress. So in her own quiet, maidenly way she set about devising a means for the relief of the unfortunate young men. She made a cake, a beautiful cake stuffed with plums and ornamented with a lovely design representing the lost Pleiad, which you perhaps know was a young lady who lived long ago and acquired eternal fame by dropping out of the procession and never getting back again. Well, Mary Matilda put this delicious cake in a beautiful paper collar-box and sent it in all haste to her brother and his two friends in the far-off country. Great was Slosson's joy upon receiving this palatable boon, and great was the joy of his two friends, who it must be confessed were on the very brink of starvation. The messages Mary Matilda received from the grateful young men, who owed their rescue to her, must have pleased her, although the consciousness of a noble deed is better than words of praise.

But one day Mary Matilda got another letter from her brother Slosson which plunged her into profound melancholy. "Weep with me, dear Sister," he wrote, "for one of my companions, Juan, has left me. He was the youngest, and I fear some great misfortune has befallen him, for he was ever brooding over the mystery of his lineage. Yesterday he left us and we have not seen him since. He took my lavender trousers with him."

As you may easily suppose, Mary Matilda was much cast down by this fell intelligence. She drooped like a blighted lily and wept.

"What can ail our Mary Matilda?" queried her mother. "The roses have vanished from her cheeks, the fire has gone out of her orbs, and her step has lost its old-time cunning. I am much worried about her."

They all noticed her changed appearance. Even Eddie Martin, the herculean wood-sawyer, observed the dejection with which the sorrow-stricken maiden emerged from the house and handed him his noontide rations of nutcakes and buttermilk. But Mary Matilda spoke of the causes of her woe to none of them. In silence she brooded over the mystery of Juan's disappearance.

When the winter came and the soft, fair snow lay ten or twelve feet deep on the level on the forest and stream, on wold and woodland, little Bessie once asked Mary Matilda if she would not take her out for a walk. Now little Bessie was Mary Matilda's niece, and she was such a sweet little girl that Mary Matilda could never say "no" to anything she asked.

"Yes, Bessie," said Mary Matilda, "if you will bundle up nice and warm I will take you out for a short walk of twenty or thirty miles."

So Bessie bundled up nice and warm. Then Mary Matilda went out on the porch and launched her two snow-shoes and got into them and harnessed them to her tiny feet.

"Where are you going?" asked Eddie Martin, pausing in his work and leaning his saw against a slab of green maple.

"I am going to take Bessie out for a short walk," replied Mary Matilda.

"Are you not afraid to go alone?" said Eddie Martin. "You know the musquashes are very thick, and this spell of winter weather has made them very hungry and ferocious."

"No, I am not afraid of the musquashes," replied Mary Matilda. But shewasafraid of them: only she did not want to tell Eddie Martin so, for fear he would want to go with her. This was the first and only wrong story Mary Matilda ever told.

Having grasped little Bessie by the hand, Mary Matilda stepped over the fence and was soon lost to view. Scarcely had she gone when a tall, thin, haggard looking young man came down the street and leaned over the back gate.

"Can you tell me," he asked in weary tones, "whether the beautiful Mary Matilda abides hereabouts?"

THE PRINCE ASKING EDDIE MARTIN ABOUT THE FAIR MARY MATILD.

"She lives here," replied Eddie Martin, "but she has gone for a walk with little Bessie."

"Whither did they drift?" queried the mysterious unknown.

"They started toward the Nashwaaksis," said Eddie Martin. "And I sadly fear the deadly musquash will pursue them."

The stranger turned pale and trembled at the suggestion.

"Will you lend me your saw for a brief period?" he asked.

"Why?" inquired Eddie Martin.

"To rescue the fair Mary Matilda from the musquashes," replied the stranger. Then he seized the saw, and with pale face started in the direction Mary Matilda had gone.

Meanwhile Mary Matilda had crossed the Nashwaaksis and was speeding in a southerly course toward the Nashwaak. The gentle breeze favored her progress, and as she sailed along, the snow danced like frozen feathers around her.

"Oh, how nice!" cried little Bessie.

"Yes, this clear, fresh, cold air gives one new life," said Mary Matilda.

They now came to the Nashwaak, on the farther bank of which were crouched a pack of hungry musquashes eagerly awaiting the approach of Mary Matilda and little Bessie.

"Hush," whispered the old big musquash. "Make no noise or they will hear us and make good their escape." But just then another musquash carelessly trod on the big musquash's tail and the old musquash roared with pain.

"What was that?" cried little Bessie.

Mary Matilda had heard the strange cry. She paused to listen. Then she saw the pack of musquashes in the snow on the farthest bank of the Nashwaak. Oh, how frightened she was! but with a shrill cry she seized Bessie in her arms, and, turning swiftly about, fled in the direction of McLeod hill. The musquashes saw her retreating, and with a howl of commingled rage and disappointment they started in hot pursuit. They ran like mad, as only starving musquashes can run. Every moment they gained on the maiden and her human charge until at last they were at her very heels. Mary Matilda remembered she had some beechnuts in her pocket. She reached down, grasped a handful of the succulent fruit and cast it to her insatiate pursuers. It stayed their pursuit for a moment, but in another moment they were on her track again, howling demoniacally. Another handful of the beechnuts went to the ravenous horde, and still another. By this time Mary Matilda had reached McLeod hill and was crossing the Nashwaaksis. Her imagination pictured a scuttled brigantine lying in the frozen stream. On its slippery deck stood a pirate, waving a gory cutlass.

"THE PRINCE'S COAT-OF-ARMS—FLIGHT OF THE FAIR MARY MATILDA—THE AGGRAVATING MIRAGE."

"Ha, ha, ho, ho!" laughed the gory and bearded pirate.

"Save me!" cried Mary Matilda. "My beechnuts are all gone!"

"Throw them the baby!" answered the bearded pirate, "and save yourself! Ha, ha, ho, ho!"

Should she do it? Should she throw little Bessie to the devouring musquashes? No, she could not stoop to that ungenerous deed.

"No, base pirate!" she cried. "I would not so demean myself!"

But the scuttled brigantine had disappeared. Mary Matilda saw it was a mirage. Meanwhile the musquashes gained on her. The beechnuts had whetted their appetite. It seemed as if they were sure of their prey. But all at once they stopped, and Mary Matilda stopped, too. They were confronted by a haggard but manly form. It was the mysterious young stranger, and he had a saw which Eddie Martin had lent him. His aspect was so terrible that the musquashes turned to flee, but they were too late. The mysterious stranger laid about him so vigorously with his saw that the musquashes soon were in bits. Here was a tail, there a leg; here an ear, there a nose—oh, it was a rare potpourri, I can tell you! Finally the musquashes all were dead.

"To whom am I indebted for my salvation?" inquired Mary Matilda, blushing deeply.

"Alas, I do not know," replied the wan stranger. "I am called Juan, but my lineage is enveloped in gloom."

At once Mary Matilda suspected he was her brother's missing friend, and this suspicion was confirmed by the lavender trousers he wore. She questioned him closely, and he told her all. Bessie heard all he said, and she could tell you more particularly than I can about it. I only know that Juan confessed that, having tasted of Mary Matilda's cake, he fell deeply in love with her and had come all this distance to ask her to be his, indissolubly.

"Still," said he, sadly, "'tis too much to ask you to link your destiny with one whose lineage is not known."

By this time they had reached the back-yard gate. Eddie Martin was sitting on the wood-pile talking with a weird old woman. The weird old woman scrutinized Mary Matilda closely.

"Do you know me?" she asked.

"No," said Mary Matilda.

"I have been serving ten years for a mild indiscretion," said the old woman, sadly. "I am the gypsy who told your fortune many years ago."

Then the old gypsy's keen eyes fell on Juan, the stranger. She gave a fierce cry.

"I have seen that face before!" she cried, trembling with emotion. "When I knew it, it was a baby face; but the spectacles are still the same!"

Juan also quivered with emotion.

"Have you a thistle mark on your left arm?" demanded the old gypsy, fiercely.

"Yes," he answered, hoarsely; and pulling up the sleeve of his linen ulster he exposed the beautiful emblem on his emaciated arm.

"It is as I suspected!" cried the old gypsy. "You are the Prince of Lochdougal, heir presumptive to the estates and titles of the Stuarts." And with these words the old gypsy swooned in Eddie Martin's arms.

When she came to, she explained that she had been a stewardess in the Lochdougal castle at Inverness when Juan's parents had been exiled for alleged conspiracy against the queen. Juan was then a prattling babe; but even then he gave promise of a princely future. Since his arrival at maturity his parents had feared to impart to him the secret of his lineage, lest he might return to Scotland and attempt to recover his estates, thereby incurring the resentment of the existing dynasty.

Of course when she heard of his noble lineage, Mary Matilda could do naught but accept the addresses of the brave prince. He speedily regained his health and flesh under the grateful influences of her cuisine. The wedding day has been set, and little Bessie is to be one of her bridesmaids. The brother Slosson is to be present, and he is to bring with him his other friend, whose name he will not mention, since his lineage is still in doubt.

BROTHER SLOSSON AND HIS OTHER FRIEND EN ROUTE TO THE WEDDING.

CHAPTER III

SOME LETTERS

"There's no art," said the doomed Duncan, "to find the mind's construction in the face," nor after a somewhat extensive acquaintance with men and their letters am I inclined to think there is very much to be found of the true individuality of men in their letters. All men, and especially literary men, seem to consider themselves on dress parade in their correspondence, and pose accordingly. Ninety-nine persons out of a hundred are more self-conscious in writing than they are in talking. Even the least conscious seem to imagine that what they put down in black and white is to pass under some censorious eye. The professional writer, whether his reputation be international, like that of a Lowell or a Stevenson, or confined to the circle of his village associates, never appears to pen a line without some affectation. The literary artist does this with an ease and grace that provokes comment upon its charming naturalness, the journeyman only occasions some remark upon his effort to "show off." If language was given us to conceal thoughts, letter writing goes a step further and puts the black-and-white mask of deliberation on language.

Eugene Field was no exception to the rule that literary men scarcely ever write letters for the mere perusal or information of the recipient. He almost always wrote for an ulterior effect or for an ulterior audience. But he seldom wrote letters deliberately for reproduction in his "Memoirs." If he had done so they would have been written so skilfully that he would have made himself out to be pretty much the particular kind of a character he pleased. For obvious reasons most of the communications that passed between Field and myself were verbal, across a partition in the office, or by notes that were destroyed as soon as they had served their purpose. That Field had other correspondents the following request for a postage stamp will testify:

THE GOOD KNIGHT'S DIPLOMACY.[1]One evening in his normal plightThe good but impecunious knightAddressing Thompson said:"Methinks a great increasing fameShall add new glory to thy name,And cluster round thy head."There is no knight but he will yieldBefore thy valor in the FieldOr in exploits of arms;And all admit the pleasing forceOf thy most eloquent discourse—Such are thy social charms."Alike to lord and vassal dearThou dost incline a pitying earTo fellow-men in pain;And be he wounded, sick, or broke,No brother knight doth e'er invokeThy knightly aid in vain."Such—such a gentle knight thou art,And it is solace to my heartTo have so fair a friend.No better, sweeter boon I prayThan thy affection—by the way,Hast thou a stamp to lend?""Aye, marry, 'tis my sweet delightTo succor such an honest knight!"Sir Thompson straight replied.Field caught the proffered treasure up,Then tossing off a stirrup-cupFrom out the castle hied.July 2d, 1885.

THE GOOD KNIGHT'S DIPLOMACY.[1]

One evening in his normal plightThe good but impecunious knightAddressing Thompson said:"Methinks a great increasing fameShall add new glory to thy name,And cluster round thy head.

One evening in his normal plight

The good but impecunious knight

Addressing Thompson said:

"Methinks a great increasing fame

Shall add new glory to thy name,

And cluster round thy head.

"There is no knight but he will yieldBefore thy valor in the FieldOr in exploits of arms;And all admit the pleasing forceOf thy most eloquent discourse—Such are thy social charms.

"There is no knight but he will yield

Before thy valor in the Field

Or in exploits of arms;

And all admit the pleasing force

Of thy most eloquent discourse—

Such are thy social charms.

"Alike to lord and vassal dearThou dost incline a pitying earTo fellow-men in pain;And be he wounded, sick, or broke,No brother knight doth e'er invokeThy knightly aid in vain.

"Alike to lord and vassal dear

Thou dost incline a pitying ear

To fellow-men in pain;

And be he wounded, sick, or broke,

No brother knight doth e'er invoke

Thy knightly aid in vain.

"Such—such a gentle knight thou art,And it is solace to my heartTo have so fair a friend.No better, sweeter boon I prayThan thy affection—by the way,Hast thou a stamp to lend?"

"Such—such a gentle knight thou art,

And it is solace to my heart

To have so fair a friend.

No better, sweeter boon I pray

Than thy affection—by the way,

Hast thou a stamp to lend?"

"Aye, marry, 'tis my sweet delightTo succor such an honest knight!"Sir Thompson straight replied.Field caught the proffered treasure up,Then tossing off a stirrup-cupFrom out the castle hied.

"Aye, marry, 'tis my sweet delight

To succor such an honest knight!"

Sir Thompson straight replied.

Field caught the proffered treasure up,

Then tossing off a stirrup-cup

From out the castle hied.

July 2d, 1885.

Was ever request for so small a "boon" couched in such lordly pomp of phrase and in such insinuating rhyme?

It was shortly after Field secured this boon that he had his first opportunity to waste postage stamps on me. With a party of friends I went up to Mackinac Island to spend a few days. By the first mail that reached the island after I had registered at the old Island House, I received a letter bearing in no less than five different colored inks the following unique superscription:

For that Most Illustrious and Puissant Knight Errant,Sir Slosson Thompson,Erstwhile of Chicago, but now illuminingMackinac Island,Michigan,

Where, under civic guise, he is accomplishing prodigiousslaughter among the fish that do infest that coast.

It may be taken for granted that the clerks and the hotel guests were consumed with curiosity as to the contents of an envelope over which they had a chance to speculate before it reached me. These were:

CHICAGO, July 19th, 1885.SWEET KNIGHT:Heedful of the promise I made to thee prior to thy setting out for the far-distant province of Mackinac, I am minded to temporarily lay aside the accoutrements of war and the chase, and pen thee this missive wherein I do discourse of all that has happened since thy departure. Upon Saturday I did lunch with that ill-tempered knight, Sir P——, and in the evening did I discuss a goodly feast with Sir Cowan, than whom a more hospitable knight doth not exist—saving only and always thyself, which art the paragon of courtesy. This day did I lunch at my own expense, but in very sooth I had it charged, whereat did the damned Dutchman sorely lament. Would to God I were now assured at whose expense I shall lunch upon the morrow and the many days that must elapse ere thy coming hence.By this courier I send thee divers rhymes which may divert thee. Soothly they are most honest chronicles, albeit in all modesty I may say they do not o'erpraise me.The good Knight Melville crieth it from the battlements that he will go into a far country next week. Meanwhile the valorous Sir Ballantyne saweth wood but sayeth naught. That winsome handmaiden Birdie quitteth our service a week hence; marry, I shall miss the wench.The fair lady Julia doth commend thy prudence in getting out of the way ere she reproaches thee for seducing the good Knight into that Milwaukee journey, of the responsibility of which naughtiness I have in very sooth washed my hands as clean as a sheep's liver.By what good fortune, too, hast thou escaped the heat and toil of this irksome weather. By my halidom the valor trickleth down my knightly chin as I pen these few lines, and my shirt cleaveth to my back like a porous plaster. The good knight of the Talking Cat speaketh to me of taking his vacation in the middle of August, whereat I much grieve, having a mind to hie me away at that sweet season myself.One sumptuous feast have we already had at thy expense at Boyle's, as by the check thou shalt descry on thy return. Sir Harper did send me a large fish from Lake Okeboji to-day, which the same did I and my heirdom devour triumphantly this very evening. I have not beheld the Knight of the Lawn since thy departure. Make fair obeisance to the sweet ladies who are with thee, and remember me in all courtesy to Sir Barbour, the good Knight of the Four Winds.Kissing thy hand a thousand times, I sign myself Thy loyal and sweet servant,FIELD,The Good and Honest Knight.

CHICAGO, July 19th, 1885.

SWEET KNIGHT:

Heedful of the promise I made to thee prior to thy setting out for the far-distant province of Mackinac, I am minded to temporarily lay aside the accoutrements of war and the chase, and pen thee this missive wherein I do discourse of all that has happened since thy departure. Upon Saturday I did lunch with that ill-tempered knight, Sir P——, and in the evening did I discuss a goodly feast with Sir Cowan, than whom a more hospitable knight doth not exist—saving only and always thyself, which art the paragon of courtesy. This day did I lunch at my own expense, but in very sooth I had it charged, whereat did the damned Dutchman sorely lament. Would to God I were now assured at whose expense I shall lunch upon the morrow and the many days that must elapse ere thy coming hence.

By this courier I send thee divers rhymes which may divert thee. Soothly they are most honest chronicles, albeit in all modesty I may say they do not o'erpraise me.

The good Knight Melville crieth it from the battlements that he will go into a far country next week. Meanwhile the valorous Sir Ballantyne saweth wood but sayeth naught. That winsome handmaiden Birdie quitteth our service a week hence; marry, I shall miss the wench.

The fair lady Julia doth commend thy prudence in getting out of the way ere she reproaches thee for seducing the good Knight into that Milwaukee journey, of the responsibility of which naughtiness I have in very sooth washed my hands as clean as a sheep's liver.

By what good fortune, too, hast thou escaped the heat and toil of this irksome weather. By my halidom the valor trickleth down my knightly chin as I pen these few lines, and my shirt cleaveth to my back like a porous plaster. The good knight of the Talking Cat speaketh to me of taking his vacation in the middle of August, whereat I much grieve, having a mind to hie me away at that sweet season myself.

One sumptuous feast have we already had at thy expense at Boyle's, as by the check thou shalt descry on thy return. Sir Harper did send me a large fish from Lake Okeboji to-day, which the same did I and my heirdom devour triumphantly this very evening. I have not beheld the Knight of the Lawn since thy departure. Make fair obeisance to the sweet ladies who are with thee, and remember me in all courtesy to Sir Barbour, the good Knight of the Four Winds.

Kissing thy hand a thousand times, I sign myself Thy loyal and sweet servant,

FIELD,The Good and Honest Knight.

Under another cover addressed ostentatiously:

"For the Good and Generous Knight,Sir Slosson Thompson,now summering amid rejoicings and with triumphant cheer atMackinac Island,Michigan,"

came the following poem, entitled:

THE GOOD SIR SLOSSON'S EPISODEWITH THE GARRULOUS SIR BARBOURSir Slosson and companions three—With hearts that reeked with careless glee—Strode down the golden sand,And pausing on the pebbly shore,They heard the sullen, solemn roarOf surf on every hand.Then Lady Florence said "I ween"—"Nay, 'tis not half so grand a scene,"Sir Barbour quickly cried,"As you may see in my fair state,Where swings the well-greased golden gateAbove the foamy tide."Sir Slosson quoth, "In very sooth"—"Nay, say not so, impetuous youth,"Sir Barbour made his boast:"This northern breeze will not compareWith that delicious perfumed airWhich broods upon our coast."Then Lady Helen fain would sayHer word, but in his restless waySir Barbour nipped that word;The other three were dumb perforce—Except Sir Barbour's glib discourse,No human sound was heard.And even that majestic roarOf breakers on the northern shoreSank to a murmur low;The winds recoiled and cried, "I' sooth,Until we heard this 'Frisco youth,We reckoned we could blow!"Sir Slosson paled with pent-up ire—His eyes emitted fitful fire—With rage his blood congealed;Yet, exercising sweet restraint,He swore no vow and breathed no plaint—But pined for Good Old Field.The ladies, too, we dare to say,(If they survived that fateful day),Eschew all 'Frisco men,Who, as perchance you have inferred,Won't let a person get a wordIn edgewise now and then.

THE GOOD SIR SLOSSON'S EPISODEWITH THE GARRULOUS SIR BARBOUR

THE GOOD SIR SLOSSON'S EPISODE

WITH THE GARRULOUS SIR BARBOUR

Sir Slosson and companions three—With hearts that reeked with careless glee—Strode down the golden sand,And pausing on the pebbly shore,They heard the sullen, solemn roarOf surf on every hand.

Sir Slosson and companions three—

With hearts that reeked with careless glee—

Strode down the golden sand,

And pausing on the pebbly shore,

They heard the sullen, solemn roar

Of surf on every hand.

Then Lady Florence said "I ween"—"Nay, 'tis not half so grand a scene,"Sir Barbour quickly cried,"As you may see in my fair state,Where swings the well-greased golden gateAbove the foamy tide."

Then Lady Florence said "I ween"—

"Nay, 'tis not half so grand a scene,"

Sir Barbour quickly cried,

"As you may see in my fair state,

Where swings the well-greased golden gate

Above the foamy tide."

Sir Slosson quoth, "In very sooth"—"Nay, say not so, impetuous youth,"Sir Barbour made his boast:"This northern breeze will not compareWith that delicious perfumed airWhich broods upon our coast."

Sir Slosson quoth, "In very sooth"—

"Nay, say not so, impetuous youth,"

Sir Barbour made his boast:

"This northern breeze will not compare

With that delicious perfumed air

Which broods upon our coast."

Then Lady Helen fain would sayHer word, but in his restless waySir Barbour nipped that word;The other three were dumb perforce—Except Sir Barbour's glib discourse,No human sound was heard.

Then Lady Helen fain would say

Her word, but in his restless way

Sir Barbour nipped that word;

The other three were dumb perforce—

Except Sir Barbour's glib discourse,

No human sound was heard.

And even that majestic roarOf breakers on the northern shoreSank to a murmur low;The winds recoiled and cried, "I' sooth,Until we heard this 'Frisco youth,We reckoned we could blow!"

And even that majestic roar

Of breakers on the northern shore

Sank to a murmur low;

The winds recoiled and cried, "I' sooth,

Until we heard this 'Frisco youth,

We reckoned we could blow!"

Sir Slosson paled with pent-up ire—His eyes emitted fitful fire—With rage his blood congealed;Yet, exercising sweet restraint,He swore no vow and breathed no plaint—But pined for Good Old Field.

Sir Slosson paled with pent-up ire—

His eyes emitted fitful fire—

With rage his blood congealed;

Yet, exercising sweet restraint,

He swore no vow and breathed no plaint—

But pined for Good Old Field.

The ladies, too, we dare to say,(If they survived that fateful day),Eschew all 'Frisco men,Who, as perchance you have inferred,Won't let a person get a wordIn edgewise now and then.

The ladies, too, we dare to say,

(If they survived that fateful day),

Eschew all 'Frisco men,

Who, as perchance you have inferred,

Won't let a person get a word

In edgewise now and then.

The subject of the good-natured and clever satire was our mutual friend, Barbour Lathrop, with whom I had been associated in journalism in San Francisco and who is famous from the Bohemian Club literally around the globe and in many of its most out-of-the-way islands as a most entertaining, albeit incessant, story-teller and conversationalist. Pretty nearly all subjects that interest humanity have engaged his attention. He could no more rest from travel than Ulysses; and he brought to those he associated with all the fruits that faring forth in strange lands could give to a mind singularly alert for education and experience under any and all conditions. His fondness for monologue frequently exposed him to raillery, like the above, in the column where Field daily held a monopoly of table talk.

But the episode with the "Garrulous Sir Barbour" was not the rhyme of chief interest (to Field and me) forwarded by "this courier."

This was confided to a third envelope even more elaborately addressed and embellished than either of the others, as follows:

For the valorous, joyous, Triumphant and Glorious Knight,The ever gentle and Courteous Flower of Chivalry,Cream of Knight Errantry and Pole Star of Manly virtues,Sir Slosson Thompson,who doth for the nonce sojourn atMackinac Island, Michigan,

Where under the guise of a lone Fisherman he isregaled with sumptuous cheer and divers rejoicings,wherein he doth right merrily disport.

The rhyme under this cover in which the impecunious knight did not "overpraise" himself bore the title "How the Good Knight protected Sir Slosson's Credit," and was well calculated to fill me with forebodings. It ran in this wise:

One midnight hour, Sir BallantyneAddressed Old Field: "Good comrade mine,The times i' faith are drear;Since you have not a son to spendI would to God our generous friendSir Slosson now were here!"Then spake the Impecunious Knight,Regardful of his piteous plight:"Odds bobs, you say the truth;For since our friend has gone away,It doth devolve on thee to pay—Else would I starve i' sooth."Emerging from their lofty lairThis much bereaved but worthy pairProceeded unto Boyle's,Agreed that buttered toast would do.Although they were accustomed toThe choicest roasts and broils."Heyday, sir knights," a varlet cried('Twas Charlie, famous far and wideAs Boyle's devoted squire);"Sir Slosson telegraphs me toDeliver straightway unto youWhatever you desire."The knights with radiant features sawThe message dated Mackinaw—Then ordered sumptuous cheer;Two dollars' worth, at least, they "cheered"While from his counter Charlie leeredAn instigating leer.I wot poor Charlie did not dreamThe telegram was but a schemeTo mulct Sir Slosson's pelf;For in the absence of his friendThe Honest Knight made bold to sendThat telegram himself.Oh, honest Field I to keep arightThe credit of an absent Knight—And undefiled his name!Upon such service for thy friendsSuch knightly courtesies dependsThy everlasting fame!

One midnight hour, Sir BallantyneAddressed Old Field: "Good comrade mine,The times i' faith are drear;Since you have not a son to spendI would to God our generous friendSir Slosson now were here!"

One midnight hour, Sir Ballantyne

Addressed Old Field: "Good comrade mine,

The times i' faith are drear;

Since you have not a son to spend

I would to God our generous friend

Sir Slosson now were here!"

Then spake the Impecunious Knight,Regardful of his piteous plight:"Odds bobs, you say the truth;For since our friend has gone away,It doth devolve on thee to pay—Else would I starve i' sooth."

Then spake the Impecunious Knight,

Regardful of his piteous plight:

"Odds bobs, you say the truth;

For since our friend has gone away,

It doth devolve on thee to pay—

Else would I starve i' sooth."

Emerging from their lofty lairThis much bereaved but worthy pairProceeded unto Boyle's,Agreed that buttered toast would do.Although they were accustomed toThe choicest roasts and broils.

Emerging from their lofty lair

This much bereaved but worthy pair

Proceeded unto Boyle's,

Agreed that buttered toast would do.

Although they were accustomed to

The choicest roasts and broils.

"Heyday, sir knights," a varlet cried('Twas Charlie, famous far and wideAs Boyle's devoted squire);"Sir Slosson telegraphs me toDeliver straightway unto youWhatever you desire."

"Heyday, sir knights," a varlet cried

('Twas Charlie, famous far and wide

As Boyle's devoted squire);

"Sir Slosson telegraphs me to

Deliver straightway unto you

Whatever you desire."

The knights with radiant features sawThe message dated Mackinaw—Then ordered sumptuous cheer;Two dollars' worth, at least, they "cheered"While from his counter Charlie leeredAn instigating leer.

The knights with radiant features saw

The message dated Mackinaw—

Then ordered sumptuous cheer;

Two dollars' worth, at least, they "cheered"

While from his counter Charlie leered

An instigating leer.

I wot poor Charlie did not dreamThe telegram was but a schemeTo mulct Sir Slosson's pelf;For in the absence of his friendThe Honest Knight made bold to sendThat telegram himself.

I wot poor Charlie did not dream

The telegram was but a scheme

To mulct Sir Slosson's pelf;

For in the absence of his friend

The Honest Knight made bold to send

That telegram himself.

Oh, honest Field I to keep arightThe credit of an absent Knight—And undefiled his name!Upon such service for thy friendsSuch knightly courtesies dependsThy everlasting fame!

Oh, honest Field I to keep aright

The credit of an absent Knight—

And undefiled his name!

Upon such service for thy friends

Such knightly courtesies depends

Thy everlasting fame!

Two days later I received a postal written in a disguised hand by Ballantyne, I think, and purporting to come from "Charlie," showing the progress of the conspiracy to mulct Sir Slosson's pelf. It read:

FRIEND THOMPSON,Fields and Ballantyne gave me the telegram tonight ordering one supper. But they have been eating all the week at your expense. Is it all right?Yours,CHAS. BURKEY.

FRIEND THOMPSON,

Fields and Ballantyne gave me the telegram tonight ordering one supper. But they have been eating all the week at your expense. Is it all right?

Yours,

CHAS. BURKEY.

And by the same mail came this comforting epistle from the arch conspirator:

CHICAGO, July the 22d, 1885.DEAR SIR KNIGHT:I have been too busy to reply to your many kind letters before this. On receipt of your telegram last night, we went to Boyle's and had sumptuous cheer at your expense. Charlie has begun to demur, and intends to write you a letter. Browne wrote me a note the other day. I enclose it to you. Please keep it for me. I hope your work will pan out more successfully.I had a long talk with Stone to-night, and churned him up about the paper. He agreed with me in nearly all particulars. He is going to fire W—— when D—— goes (August 1). He said, "I am going to have a lively shaking up at that time." One important change I am not at liberty to specify, but you will approve it. By the way, Stone spoke very highly of you and your work. It would be safe for you to strike him on the salary question as soon as you please. The weather is oppressively warm. Things run along about so so in the office. Hawkins told me he woke up the other night, and could not go to sleep again till he had sung a song. The Dutch girls at Henrici's inquire tenderly for you.... Hastily yours,EUGENE FIELD.

CHICAGO, July the 22d, 1885.

DEAR SIR KNIGHT:

I have been too busy to reply to your many kind letters before this. On receipt of your telegram last night, we went to Boyle's and had sumptuous cheer at your expense. Charlie has begun to demur, and intends to write you a letter. Browne wrote me a note the other day. I enclose it to you. Please keep it for me. I hope your work will pan out more successfully.

I had a long talk with Stone to-night, and churned him up about the paper. He agreed with me in nearly all particulars. He is going to fire W—— when D—— goes (August 1). He said, "I am going to have a lively shaking up at that time." One important change I am not at liberty to specify, but you will approve it. By the way, Stone spoke very highly of you and your work. It would be safe for you to strike him on the salary question as soon as you please. The weather is oppressively warm. Things run along about so so in the office. Hawkins told me he woke up the other night, and could not go to sleep again till he had sung a song. The Dutch girls at Henrici's inquire tenderly for you.... Hastily yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

The note from Mr. Browne here mentioned related to the proposed publication of a collection of Field's verse and stories. The Browne was Francis F., for a long time editor of The Dial, and at that time holding the position of principal reader for A.C. McClurg & Co. As I remember, Mr. Browne was favorably disposed toward putting out a volume of Field's writings, but General McClurg was not enamoured of the breezy sort of personal persiflage with which Field's name was then chiefly associated. This was several years before Field made the Saints' and Sinners' Corner in McClurg's Chicago book-store famous throughout the bibliomaniac world by fictitious reports relating to it printed occasionally in his "Sharps and Flats" column. It was not until 1893 that McClurg & Co. published any of Field's writings.

My work to which Field refers was the collection of newspaper and periodical verse entitled "The Humbler Poets," which McClurg & Co. subsequently published.

Enclosed in the letter of July 22d was the following characteristic account, conveying the impression that while he was willing to waste all the resources of his colored inks and literary ingenuity on our friendship, I must pay the freight. I think he had a superstition that it would cause a flaw in his title of "The Good Knight,sans peur et sans monnaie" if he were to add the price of a two-cent postage stamp to that waste.

A STAMP ACCOUNT.

Mr. Slosson Thompson.to Eugene Field, Dr.To 4 stamps at2 cts—July 20—.08To 1 stamp—July 22—.02Total.10Please remit.

Shortly after my return from Mackinac, Field presented me with the following verses, enlivened with several drawings in colors, entitled "An Echo from Mackinac Island, August, 1885":

AN ECHO FROM MACKINAC ISLAND.

I.A Thompson went rowing out into the strait—Out into the strait in the early morn;His step was light and his brow elate,And his shirt was as new as the day just born.His brow was cool and his breath was free,And his hands were soft as a lady's hands,And a song of the booming waves sang heAs he launched his bark from the golden sands.The grayling chuckled a hoarse "ha-ha,"And the Cisco tittered a rude "he-he"—But the Thompson merrily sang "tra-la"As his bark bounced over the Northern Sea.II.A Thompson came bobbling back into the bay—Back into the bay as the Sun sank low,And the people knew there was hell to pay,For HE wasn't the first who had come back so.His nose was skinned and his spine was sore,And the blisters speckled his hands so white—He had lost his hat and had dropped an oar,And his bosom-shirt was a sad sea sight.And the grayling chuckled again "ha-ha,"And the Cisco tittered a harsh "ho-ho"—But the Thompson anchored furninst a barAnd called for a schooner to drown his woe.

A Thompson went rowing out into the strait—Out into the strait in the early morn;His step was light and his brow elate,And his shirt was as new as the day just born.

A Thompson went rowing out into the strait—

Out into the strait in the early morn;

His step was light and his brow elate,

And his shirt was as new as the day just born.

His brow was cool and his breath was free,And his hands were soft as a lady's hands,And a song of the booming waves sang heAs he launched his bark from the golden sands.

His brow was cool and his breath was free,

And his hands were soft as a lady's hands,

And a song of the booming waves sang he

As he launched his bark from the golden sands.

The grayling chuckled a hoarse "ha-ha,"And the Cisco tittered a rude "he-he"—But the Thompson merrily sang "tra-la"As his bark bounced over the Northern Sea.

The grayling chuckled a hoarse "ha-ha,"

And the Cisco tittered a rude "he-he"—

But the Thompson merrily sang "tra-la"

As his bark bounced over the Northern Sea.

II.

A Thompson came bobbling back into the bay—Back into the bay as the Sun sank low,And the people knew there was hell to pay,For HE wasn't the first who had come back so.

A Thompson came bobbling back into the bay—

Back into the bay as the Sun sank low,

And the people knew there was hell to pay,

For HE wasn't the first who had come back so.

His nose was skinned and his spine was sore,And the blisters speckled his hands so white—He had lost his hat and had dropped an oar,And his bosom-shirt was a sad sea sight.

His nose was skinned and his spine was sore,

And the blisters speckled his hands so white—

He had lost his hat and had dropped an oar,

And his bosom-shirt was a sad sea sight.

And the grayling chuckled again "ha-ha,"And the Cisco tittered a harsh "ho-ho"—But the Thompson anchored furninst a barAnd called for a schooner to drown his woe.

And the grayling chuckled again "ha-ha,"

And the Cisco tittered a harsh "ho-ho"—

But the Thompson anchored furninst a bar

And called for a schooner to drown his woe.

AN ECHO FROM MACKINAC ISLAND.

During the fall of 1885 I was again sent East on some political work that took me to Saratoga and New York. As usual, Field was unremitting in his epistolary attentions with which I will not weary the reader. But on the journey back from New York they afforded entertainment and almost excited the commiseration of a young lady travelling home under my escort. When we reached Chicago I casually remarked that if she was so moved by Field's financial straits I would take pleasure in conveying as much truage to the impecunious knight as would provide him with buttered toast, coffee, and pie at Henrici's. She accordingly entrusted me with a quarter of a dollar, which I was to deliver with every assurance of her esteem and sympathy. As I was pledged not to reveal the donor's name, this tribute of silver provided Field with another character, whom he named "The Fair Unknown," and to whom he indited several touching ballads, of which the first was:

THE GOOD KNIGHT AND THE FAIR UNKNOWNNow, once when this good knight was brokeAnd all his chattels were in soak,The brave Sir Thompson cameAnd saith: "I' faith accept this loanOf silver from a fair unknown—But do not ask her name!"The Good Knight dropped his wassail cupAnd took the proffered bauble up,And cautiously he bitIts surface, but it would not yield,Which did convince the grand old FieldIt was not counterfeit.Then quoth the Good Knight, as he wept:"Soothly this boon I must accept,Else would I sore offendThe doer of this timely deed,The nymph who would allay my need—My fair but unknown friend."But take to her, O gallant knight,This signet with my solemn plightTo seek her presence straight,When varlets or a caitiff crewResolved some evil deed to do—Besiege her castle gate."Then when her faithful squire shall bringTo him who sent this signet ringInvoking aid of me—Lo, by my faith, with this good swordWill I disperse the base-born hordeAnd set the princess free!"And yet, Sir Thompson, if I sendThis signet to my unknown friend,I jeopardize my life;For this fair signet which you see,Odds bobs, doth not belong to me,But to my brawny wife!"I should not risk so sweet a thingAs my salvation for a ring,And all through jealous spite!Haste to the fair unknown and sayYou lost the ring upon the way—Come, there's a courteous Knight!"Eftsoons he spake, the Good Knight drewHis visor down, and waving toSir Thompson fond farewell,He leapt upon his courser fleetAnd crossed the drawbridge to the streetWhich was ycleped La Salle.

THE GOOD KNIGHT AND THE FAIR UNKNOWN

Now, once when this good knight was brokeAnd all his chattels were in soak,The brave Sir Thompson cameAnd saith: "I' faith accept this loanOf silver from a fair unknown—But do not ask her name!"

Now, once when this good knight was broke

And all his chattels were in soak,

The brave Sir Thompson came

And saith: "I' faith accept this loan

Of silver from a fair unknown—

But do not ask her name!"

The Good Knight dropped his wassail cupAnd took the proffered bauble up,And cautiously he bitIts surface, but it would not yield,Which did convince the grand old FieldIt was not counterfeit.

The Good Knight dropped his wassail cup

And took the proffered bauble up,

And cautiously he bit

Its surface, but it would not yield,

Which did convince the grand old Field

It was not counterfeit.

Then quoth the Good Knight, as he wept:"Soothly this boon I must accept,Else would I sore offendThe doer of this timely deed,The nymph who would allay my need—My fair but unknown friend.

Then quoth the Good Knight, as he wept:

"Soothly this boon I must accept,

Else would I sore offend

The doer of this timely deed,

The nymph who would allay my need—

My fair but unknown friend.

"But take to her, O gallant knight,This signet with my solemn plightTo seek her presence straight,When varlets or a caitiff crewResolved some evil deed to do—Besiege her castle gate.

"But take to her, O gallant knight,

This signet with my solemn plight

To seek her presence straight,

When varlets or a caitiff crew

Resolved some evil deed to do—

Besiege her castle gate.

"Then when her faithful squire shall bringTo him who sent this signet ringInvoking aid of me—Lo, by my faith, with this good swordWill I disperse the base-born hordeAnd set the princess free!

"Then when her faithful squire shall bring

To him who sent this signet ring

Invoking aid of me—

Lo, by my faith, with this good sword

Will I disperse the base-born horde

And set the princess free!

"And yet, Sir Thompson, if I sendThis signet to my unknown friend,I jeopardize my life;For this fair signet which you see,Odds bobs, doth not belong to me,But to my brawny wife!

"And yet, Sir Thompson, if I send

This signet to my unknown friend,

I jeopardize my life;

For this fair signet which you see,

Odds bobs, doth not belong to me,

But to my brawny wife!

"I should not risk so sweet a thingAs my salvation for a ring,And all through jealous spite!Haste to the fair unknown and sayYou lost the ring upon the way—Come, there's a courteous Knight!"

"I should not risk so sweet a thing

As my salvation for a ring,

And all through jealous spite!

Haste to the fair unknown and say

You lost the ring upon the way—

Come, there's a courteous Knight!"

Eftsoons he spake, the Good Knight drewHis visor down, and waving toSir Thompson fond farewell,He leapt upon his courser fleetAnd crossed the drawbridge to the streetWhich was ycleped La Salle.

Eftsoons he spake, the Good Knight drew

His visor down, and waving to

Sir Thompson fond farewell,

He leapt upon his courser fleet

And crossed the drawbridge to the street

Which was ycleped La Salle.

Another bit of verse was inspired by this incident which is worth preserving: One night I was dining at the house of a friend on the North Side where the "Fair Unknown" was one of the company—a fact of which Field only became possessed when I left the office late in the afternoon. The dinner had not progressed quite to the withdrawal of the ladies when, with some confusion, one of the waiting-men brought in and gave to me a large packet from the office marked "Personal; deliver at once." Thinking it had something to do with work for the Morning News, I asked to be excused and hastily tore the enclosure open. One glance was enough to disclose its nature. It was a poem from Field, neatly arranged in the form of a pamphlet, with an illustration by Sclanders. The outside, which was in the form of a title page, ran thus:

HOW THE GOOD KNIGHT ATTENDEDUPON SIR SLOSSON:

BEING A WOEFUL TALEOFTHE MOST JOYOUS AND DIVERTING DAYS

WHEREIN

KNIGHTS ERRANT DID COURTEOUSLYDISPORT THEMSELVESAND ACHIEVE PRODIGIES OF VALOR,

AND

MARVELS OF SWEET FRIENDSHIP.

And inside the plaintive story was told in variegated ink in the following lines:

One chilly raw November nightBeneath a dull electric light,At half-past ten o'clock,The Good Knight, wan and hungry, stood,And in a half-expectant moodPeered up and down the block.The smell of viands floated byThe Good Knight from a basement nighAnd tantalized his soul.Keenly his classic, knightly noseEnvied the fragrance that aroseFrom many a steaming bowl.Pining for stews not brewed for him,The Good Knight stood there gaunt and grim—A paragon of woe;And muttered in a chiding tone,"Odds bobs! Sir Slosson must have known'Twas going to rain or snow!"But while the Good and Honest KnightFlocked by himself in sorry plight,Sir Slosson did regaleHimself within a castle grand—of the Good Knight andHis wonted stoup of ale.Mid joyous knights and ladies fairHe little recked the evening airBlew bitterly without;Heedless of pelting storms that cameTo drench his friend's dyspeptic frame,He joined the merry rout.But underneath the corner lightLingered the impecunious Knight—Wet, hungry and alone—Hoping that from Sir Slosson someEncouragement mayhap would come,Or from the Fair Unknown.

One chilly raw November nightBeneath a dull electric light,At half-past ten o'clock,The Good Knight, wan and hungry, stood,And in a half-expectant moodPeered up and down the block.

One chilly raw November night

Beneath a dull electric light,

At half-past ten o'clock,

The Good Knight, wan and hungry, stood,

And in a half-expectant mood

Peered up and down the block.

The smell of viands floated byThe Good Knight from a basement nighAnd tantalized his soul.Keenly his classic, knightly noseEnvied the fragrance that aroseFrom many a steaming bowl.

The smell of viands floated by

The Good Knight from a basement nigh

And tantalized his soul.

Keenly his classic, knightly nose

Envied the fragrance that arose

From many a steaming bowl.

Pining for stews not brewed for him,The Good Knight stood there gaunt and grim—A paragon of woe;And muttered in a chiding tone,"Odds bobs! Sir Slosson must have known'Twas going to rain or snow!"

Pining for stews not brewed for him,

The Good Knight stood there gaunt and grim—

A paragon of woe;

And muttered in a chiding tone,

"Odds bobs! Sir Slosson must have known

'Twas going to rain or snow!"

But while the Good and Honest KnightFlocked by himself in sorry plight,Sir Slosson did regaleHimself within a castle grand—of the Good Knight andHis wonted stoup of ale.

But while the Good and Honest Knight

Flocked by himself in sorry plight,

Sir Slosson did regale

Himself within a castle grand—

of the Good Knight and

His wonted stoup of ale.

Mid joyous knights and ladies fairHe little recked the evening airBlew bitterly without;Heedless of pelting storms that cameTo drench his friend's dyspeptic frame,He joined the merry rout.

Mid joyous knights and ladies fair

He little recked the evening air

Blew bitterly without;

Heedless of pelting storms that came

To drench his friend's dyspeptic frame,

He joined the merry rout.

But underneath the corner lightLingered the impecunious Knight—Wet, hungry and alone—Hoping that from Sir Slosson someEncouragement mayhap would come,Or from the Fair Unknown.

But underneath the corner light

Lingered the impecunious Knight—

Wet, hungry and alone—

Hoping that from Sir Slosson some

Encouragement mayhap would come,

Or from the Fair Unknown.

The drawing in this verse marks the beginning of the transfer of our patronage from the steaks and gamblers' frowns of Billy Boyle's to the oysters and the cricket's friendly chirps of the Boston Oyster House. The reference to Field's "dyspeptic frame" is not without its significance, for it was about this time that he became increasingly conscious of that weakness of the stomach that grew upon him and began to give him serious concern.

How Field seized upon my absence from the city for the briefest visit to bombard me with queer and fanciful letters, found another illustration during Christmas week, 1885, which I spent with a house party at Blair Lodge, the home of Walter Cranston Larned, whom I have already mentioned as the possessor of Field's two masterpieces in color. Each day of my stay was enlivened by a letter from Field. As they are admirable specimens of the wonderful pains he took with letters of this sort, and the expertness he attained in the command of the archaic form of English, I need no excuse for introducing them here. The first, which bears date "December 27th, 1385," was written on an imitation sheet of old letter paper, browned with dirt and ragged edged. In the order of receipt these letters were as follows:

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