ity, and he thoroughly enjoyed such suggestions being taken
seriously. Once having started the ball of doubt rolling he never let
it stop for want of some neat strokes of his cunning pen. Several
noteworthy instances of this form of literary diversion or perversion
occur to me. There never was any occasion to doubt the authorship of
"The Lost Sheep," which won for Sally Pratt McLean wide popular
recognition a decade and a half ago. Its first stanza will recall it
to the memory of all:

_De massa of de sheep fol'
Dat guard de sheep fol' bin,
Look out in de gloomerin' meadows
Whar de long night rain begin--
So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd,
"Is my sheep, is dey all come in?"
Oh, den says de hirelin' shepa'd,
"Dey's some, dey's black and thin,
And some, dey's po'ol' wedda's,
But de res' dey's all brung in--
But de res' dey's all brung in."_

The very notoriety of the authorship of these lines merely served as
an incentive for Field to print the following paragraph calling it in
question:

Miss Sally McLean, author of "Cape Cod Folks," claims to have written
the dialect poem, "Massa of de Sheep Fold," which the New York Sun
pronounces a poetic masterpiece. We dislike to contradict Miss
McLean, but candor compels us to say that we have reason to believe
that she is not the author of the stanzas in question. According to
the best of our recollection, this poem was dashed off in the
wine-room of the Gault House, at Louisville, Ky., by Colonel John A.
Joyce, from ten to twenty years ago. Joyce was in the midst of a
party of convivial friends. After several cases of champagne had been
tossed down, a member of the party said to Colonel Joyce, "Come, old
fellow, give us an extempore poem." As Colonel Joyce had not utilized
his muse for at least twenty minutes, he cordially assented to the
proposition, and while the waiter was bringing a fresh supply of wine
Colonel Joyce dashed off the dialect poem so highly praised by the
New York Sun. We are amazed that he has laid no claim to its
authorship since its revival. Unfortunately, all the gentlemen who
were present at the time he dashed off the poem are dead, or there
would be no trouble in substantiating his claims to its authorship.
We distinctly remember he wrote it the same evening he dashed off the
pretty poem so violently claimed by, and so generally accredited to,
Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

T