How good it is to live in this beautiful world of ours; how varied
  and countless are the blessings bestowed upon us; how sweet is the
  beneficence of Nature; how dear is the companionship of humanity!

“The companionship of humanity!” Nothing could make up to him any narrowing of that.  His friends became dearer to him than ever.  He could send his copy down to the printer, but when his friends did not come out in sufficient numbers to Buena Park he made the long trip to town to meet them at luncheon or in the Saints’ and Sinners’ Corner at McClurg’s.  Here he held almost daily court, and mulled over the materials for “The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac”—­the opening chapter of which appeared in his “Sharps and Flats” on August 30th.  Here he confided to a few that the grasshopper had “become a burden,” by reason of the weariness of his long convalescence.  Here he had those meetings with the Rev. Frank W. Gunsaulus which resulted in the frequent transfer of poems from the latter’s pocket to the “Sharps and Flats” column, without initial or sign to intimate that they were other than Field’s own vintage, only from a new press.  Here, too, his whole bearing and conversation were so uniformly hopeful, hearty, and light-hearted, that they deceived all his associates into confidence that the new home had instilled new life into our friend’s gaunt frame.

His column, too, reflected the genial, mellow spirit that played through all his speech and ways during the early autumn days of 1895.  No other work that he had done so completely satisfied him as “The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac.”  He was steeped in the lore of the cult.  He had yielded to its fascinations while preserving the keenest appreciation of its whims and weaknesses.  And so the story meandered on through September and October with an ever-increasing charm of mingled sentiment and sweet satire; and so it seemed as if it might meander on forever.

But he did not attempt to write a chapter of this exquisite reminiscing every day.  It was sandwiched in between columns of paragraphs and verse such as had earned for him his great vogue with the readers of the Record.  He could still surprise and pain the “first literary circles of Chicago” with such literary notes as: 

  It is officially announced by the official board of managers of the
  National Federation of Realists that Hamlin Garland put on his
  light-weight flannels last week.

  In the north branch recently was found a turtle having upon its back
  the letters P.B.S.—­the initials of the revered name of the immortal
  Percy Bysshe Shelley.

And he did not fail to keep Chicago informed of the latest Buena Park news in such rural journal notes as these: 

  Among the many improvements to be noticed in the Park this spring is
  the handsome new collar with which the ever-enterprising William
  Clow, Esq., has provided his St. Bernard dog.