ure on it, in blue, the fireplace
in yellow, chairs and tables in purple, and the "buttery," as he
insisted on calling the bathroom, in brown. As these apartments were in
the Pullman Building, on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Adams
Street, and commanded a glimpse of the lake, Field's diagram included a
representation of Lake Michigan by zigzag lines of blue ink, with a
single fish as long as a street-car, according to his scale, leering at
the spectator from the billowy depths of indigo blue. Everything in the
diagram was carefully identified in the key which accompanied it. An
idea of the infinite attention to detail Field bestowed on such
frivoling as this may be gathered from the accompanying cut of the
Pullman Building, from the seventh story of which I am shown waving a
welcome to the good but "impecunious knight." The inscription, in
Field's handwriting, tells the story.

[Illustration: THE GOOD KNIGHT SLOSSON'S CASTLE.
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._

The good knight Slosson from a watch tower of his castle desenith and
salutith the good Knight Eugene, sans peur et sans monie.]

[Illustration: 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.]

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.

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 boo