Field

There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: But feast to-day while yet we may,-- Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!

The credit for verbal literalness of translation is with Prout, but the spirit of the fiddler of Béranger glows through the free rendition of Field.

Francis Mahony.]

The reader of Eugene Field's works will find scant acknowledgment of his indebtedness to Father Francis Mahony, but there are many expressions of his love and admiration for the friend who introduced him to the scholar, wit, and philosopher, by whose ways of life and work his own were to be so shaped and tinged. Among these my scrap-books afford three bits of verse which indicate in different degrees the esteem in which "the genial dock" of our comradeship was held by his associates as well as by Field. The first was written in honor of the doctor's silver wedding: