which I ought to make.  I doubt very much whether I visit any other European city except Paris; I am greatly pleased with London, every sight awakening such a flood of reminiscence.  If I were not so disgracefully poor.  I could pick up a host of charming knick-knacks here; as it is, I have to shut my eyes and groan, and pass by on the other side.

I have just finished “Yvytot,” the first purely fanciful ballad I ever wrote.  I have been at work on it for two months, and I think it is the best piece of literary work I have done, although it is somewhat above the class of work that is popular.  You will like it for its rhythmical smoothness and for its weirdness.  But Mrs. Field prefers “Krinken,” “Marthy’s Younkit,” et id omne genus.  My next verse will be “John Smith, U.S.A.,” a poem suggested by seeing this autograph at Gilley’s.  In it I shall use the Yankee, the Hoosier, the southern and the western dialect, wondering whether this Smith is the Smith I knew in Massachusetts, or the Smith from Louisville, or the Smith from Terry Hut, or (last of all) the Smith from the Red Hoss Mountain district.  I wish you were here to help me throw my ideas into shape.  How do you like this handsome paper?

  Affectionately,

  EUGENE FIELD. 
  Tuesday, October 29th, 1889.

Field may have thought that he spent only two months on “Yvytot,” but as a matter of fact he had been mulling it over for twice that many years; and he had hoped to finish it in time for his “Little Book of Western Verse.”  But it was one of those bits of verse upon which he loved to putter, and he was loath to put it into type beyond the reach of occasional revision.  When the “Little Book of Western Verse” was issued in popular form “Yvytot” was included in it in the place of the list of subscribers and John Wilson & Son’s colophon.  Speaking of the Hoosier dialect, Field was fond of telling the following story on his friend James Whitcomb Riley: 

James Whitcomb Riley went to Europe last summer.  On the return voyage an incident happened which is well worth telling of.  To beguile the tediousness of the voyage it was proposed to give a concert in the saloon of the ship—­an entertainment to which all capable of amusing their fellow-voyagers should contribute.  Mr. Riley was asked to recite some of his original poems, and of course he cheerfully agreed to do so.  Among the number present at this mid-ocean entertainment, over which the Rev. Myron Reed presided, were two Scotchmen, very worthy gentlemen, en route from the land o’ cakes to the land of biscuits upon a tour of investigation.  These twain shared the enthusiasm with which the auditors applauded Mr. Riley’s charming recitations.  They marvelled that so versatile a genius could have lived in a land reputed for uncouthness and savagery.

  “Is it no wonderfu’, Donal’,” remarked one of these Scots, “that a
  tradesman suld be sic a bonnie poet?”