gery.

"Is it no wonderfu', Donal'," remarked one of these Scots, "that a
tradesman suld be sic a bonnie poet?"

"And is he indeed a tradesman?" asked the other.

"Indeed he is," answered the other. "Did ye no hear the dominie
intryjuce him as the hoosier poet? Just think of it, mon!--just
think of sic a gude poet dividing his time at making hoosiery?"

There is more of the old spirit of the genuine Eugene Field in the
next letter, written from London, November 13th, 1889, than in any of
his other correspondence after 1888:

MY DEAR COWEN: I am now (so to speak) in God's hands. Getting the
four children fitted out for school and paying a quarter's tuition
in advance has reduced me to a condition of financial weakness which
fills me with the gloomiest apprehension. You of fertile resource
must tell me what I am to do. I will not steal; to beg I am ashamed.
My bank account shows L15. Verily, I am in hell's hole.

Had I received your letter in time I should have gone to Paris with
the children. Not a word have I heard from Moffett, and your letter
reached me after my return from Germany. Instinct all along has told
me "Paris," but reason has counselled "Germany." I have yielded to
reason, and the children are in Hanover--Trotty at the school of
Fraulein Gensen, Allee Strasse, No. 1, and the three boys with
Professor C. Ruehle (prophetic name!), Heinrich Strasse, 26 A.
Parting from them was like plucking my heart from me; but they are
contented. The night before they went to live with the professor,
Pinny and Daisy were plotting to "do" that worthy man, but I do not
fear for him, as he is a very husky gentleman. It seems the smart
thing now to keep the children at Hanover for six months; then, if a
change be deemed advisable, I shall take them to Paris.

My health appears to be better. I have written five poems, which are
highly commended. My books are out, and, though I have not clapped
eyes on them yet, they are being highly praised by the American
press. I shall see that you get copies. So far, we have been about
but very little. Our finances are too cramped to admit of our doing
or seeing much. But we may be happy yet. Julia joins me in
affectionate assurances.

Ever sincerely yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

Of a different tone, and yet giving very much the same impression of
how Field was spending his time in London, is the following letter to
his