Thus was Prince Alexander convicted of having burglarized Bulgaria upon an invention which should not have deceived Mr. Labouchere.  How that ostentatiously manufactured alias ever imposed on Truth passes comprehension.  Is it any wonder that at one of our numerous mid-day lunches “Colonel” Norton fired the following rhyming retort at Field?—­

  TO EUGENE FIELD

  Forgive, dear youth, the forwardness
    Of her who blushing sends you this,
  Because she must her love confess,
    Alas!  Alas!  A lass she is.

  Long, long, so long, her timid heart
    Has held its joy in secrecy,
  Being by nature’s cunning art
    So made, so made, so maidenly.

  She knew you once, but as a pen
    In humor dipt in wisdom’s pool,
  And gladly gave her homage then
    To one, to one, too wonderful;

  But having seen your face, so mild,
    So pale, so full of animus,
  She can but cry in accents wild,
    Eugene!  Eugene!  You genius!_

The deep and abiding interest Field felt in the fortunes of Prince Alexander may be inferred from his exclamation, “When Stofsky meets Etrovitch, then comes the tug of Servo-Bulgarian war!”

He took no end of pleasure in starting discussions over the authorship of verses and sayings by wilfully attributing them to persons whose mere name in such connection conveyed the sense of humorous impossibility, 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