By what good fortune, too, hast thou escaped the heat and toil of this irksome weather.  By my halidom the valor trickleth down my knightly chin as I pen these few lines, and my shirt cleaveth to my back like a porous plaster.  The good knight of the Talking Cat speaketh to me of taking his vacation in the middle of August, whereat I much grieve, having a mind to hie me away at that sweet season myself.

One sumptuous feast have we already had at thy expense at Boyle’s, as by the check thou shalt descry on thy return.  Sir Harper did send me a large fish from Lake Okeboji to-day, which the same did I and my heirdom devour triumphantly this very evening.  I have not beheld the Knight of the Lawn since thy departure.  Make fair obeisance to the sweet ladies who are with thee, and remember me in all courtesy to Sir Barbour, the good Knight of the Four Winds.

  Kissing thy hand a thousand times, I sign myself
  Thy loyal and sweet servant,

  FIELD,
  The Good and Honest Knight.

Under another cover addressed ostentatiously: 

“For the Good and Generous Knight, Sir Slosson Thompson, now summering amid rejoicings and with triumphant cheer at Mackinac Island, Michigan,”

came the following poem, entitled: 

  THE GOOD SIR SLOSSON’S EPISODE WITH THE GARRULOUS SIR BARBOUR

  Sir Slosson and companions three—­
  With hearts that reeked with careless glee—­
      Strode down the golden sand,
  And pausing on the pebbly shore,
  They heard the sullen, solemn roar
      Of surf on every hand.

  Then Lady Florence said “I ween”—­
  “Nay, ’tis not half so grand a scene,”
      Sir Barbour quickly cried,
  “As you may see in my fair state,
  Where swings the well-greased golden gate
      Above the foamy tide.”

  Sir Slosson quoth, “In very sooth”—­
  “Nay, say not so, impetuous youth,”
      Sir Barbour made his boast: 
  “This northern breeze will not compare
  With that delicious perfumed air
      Which broods upon our coast.”

  Then Lady Helen fain would say
  Her word, but in his restless way
      Sir Barbour nipped that word;
  The other three were dumb perforce—­
  Except Sir Barbour’s glib discourse,
      No human sound was heard.

  And even that majestic roar
  Of breakers on the northern shore
      Sank to a murmur low;
  The winds recoiled and cried, “I’ sooth,
  Until we heard this ’Frisco youth,
      We reckoned we could blow!”

  Sir Slosson paled with pent-up ire—­
  His eyes emitted fitful fire—­
      With rage his blood congealed;
  Yet, exercising sweet restraint,
  He swore no vow and breathed no plaint—­
      But pined for Good Old Field.

  The ladies, too, we dare to say,
  (If they survived that fateful day),
      Eschew all ’Frisco men,
  Who, as perchance you have inferred,
  Won’t let a person get a word
      In edgewise now and then._