terwards broken.

Some years ago, however, I visited Chicago, to lecture, at the
invitation of its famous social and literary "Twentieth Century Club."
This was Eugene's opportunity, and I ought not to have been as
dumfounded as I was, one day, when our evening papers copied from the
"Chicago Record" a "very pleasant joke" at the expense of his town and
myself! It was headed: "Chicago Excited! Tremendous Preparations for
His Reception," and went on to give the order and route of a procession
that was to be formed at the Chicago station and escort me to my
quarters--stopping at Armour's packing-yards and the art-galleries on
the way. It included the "Twentieth Century Club" in carriages, the
"Browning Club" in busses, and the "Homer Club" in drays; ten
millionnaire publishers, and as many pork-packers, in a chariot drawn
by white horses, followed by not less than two hundred Chicago poets
afoot! I have no doubt that Eugene thought I would enjoy this kind of
advertisement as heartily as he did. If so, he lacked the gift of
putting himself in the other man's place. But his sardonic face,
a-grin like a school-boy's, was one with two others which shone upon me
when I did reach Chicago, and my pride was not wounded sufficiently to
prevent me from enjoying the restaurant luncheon to which he bore me
off in triumph. I did promise to square accounts with him, in time,
and this is how I fulfilled my word. The next year, at a meeting of a
suburban "Society of Authors," a certain lady-journalist was chaffed as
to her acquaintanceship with Field, and accused of addressing him as
"Gene." At this she took umbrage, saying: "It's true we worked
together on the same paper for five years, but he was always a perfect
gentleman. I _never_ called him 'Gene.'" This was reported by the
press, and gave me the refrain for a skit entitled "Katharine and
Eugenio:"

Five years she sate a-near him
Within that type-strewn loft;
She handed him the paste-pot,
He passed the scissors oft;
They dipped in the same inkstand
That crowned their desk between,
Yet--he never called her Katie,
She never called him "Gene."

Though close--ah! close--the droplight
That classic head revealed,
She was to him Miss Katharine,
He--naught but Mister Field;
Decorum graced his upright brow
And thinned his lips serene,
And, though he wrote a poem each hour,
Why should she call him "Gene?"

She gazed at