into a comfortable modern house and of converting the sandy soil surrounding it into a land of horticulture promise is told by Field in whimsical style in “The House,” a work unfinished at the time of his death.  The first instalment of this story appeared in “Sharps and Flats” on May 15th.  Eighteen chapters followed on successive days without a break.  By August 15th, when the last instalment was printed, a vexatious series of disappointments had robbed Field’s humor of its natural buoyancy.  He therefore dropped the story in about the same unfinished stage as he found his new home when his impatience finally took possession of it before the carpenters and painters were all out.  On May 14th he wrote to his aged Maecenas: 

DEAR MR. GRAY:  I returned from my St. Joseph’s trip last Saturday and found your draft awaiting me here.  The men have begun to push work on the house, and it is expected that the plastering will be done this week.  I have no doubt that we shall be able to move into our new home the first of June, although the place may not be in complete trim at that time.  I cannot tell you how pleasurably I anticipate life in the house which I can call a permanent home.  I expect to do better work now than ever before.  And I want you to understand that Julia and I keenly appreciate that but for you the important move we have made could hardly have been undertaken.  We are hoping that you will run up here for a day or two early in June.  Our love to you and Miss Eva.  Affectionately yours,

  EUGENE FIELD.

The next and last letter which I shall quote from this interesting correspondence has the unique distinction of being the only one from him of all that passed between them that is not in Field’s own chirography.  In inditing this, he substituted the serviceable typewriter for the pen, that had been his companion for so many years, and that had served him “so diligently,” as he so beautifully acknowledged in the apostrophe to it addressed to his brother Roswell.  It bears date July 2d, and testifies to the writer’s failure to realize the bright anticipation of getting into his new home during the early days of the leafy month of June: 

  Chicago, July 3d, 1895.

DEAR MR GRAY:  For the last two weeks I have been deferring writing to you, hoping from day to day that I would be able to announce our removal into the new house, but it seems as though the Fates are conspired against us.  First it was one thing to delay our removal, then it was another, and finally everything.  Here it is the first of the month, and we are still in our rented quarters.  We intended to begin moving yesterday, and up to the very last moment on Saturday hoped to be able to do so, but the painters, and carpenters, and the plumbers combined against us, and we are in the spot where you saw us when last in Chicago.

From this beginning you will gather that the new house is in rather a sad plight.  It