Cemetery.  The lot I selected and bought is in a pretty, accessible spot, sheltered by two oak trees, just such spot as the boy himself, with his love for nature, would have chosen.  The interment was very private, none being present but the family.  Others were in the cemetery making preparations for the observance of Decoration Day.  Of this number were many Germans, and these, attracted by the appearance of the pretentious German casket in which our boy’s body lay, gathered around wonderingly.  They were curious to know the story of that casket, for they had not seen one like it for many years.  But the ceremony, however painful, was beautiful—­beautiful in the caressing glory of the sunlight that was all around, in the fragrant, velvety verdure that composed the bed to which we consigned the ashes of the beloved one, in the gentle music of the birds that nested hard by and knew no fear, and in the love which we bore him and always shall.

You must tell Mrs. Gray that we shall not abandon our purpose to induce her to visit us.  We have every facility for keeping warm, although if this atrocious weather continues we shall have to lay in more coal.  She would find us comfortably located, and the warmth of our welcome and the cordiality of our attentions would perhaps compensate for the absence of many of her home luxuries, which we cannot of course supply.  You should come, too.  While I am too wise to undertake to outwalk, outfish, or outrun you, I will venture to contract to keep you entertained diligently and discreetly during your sojourn with us.

I have had two very interesting letters from one Mrs. Temperance Moon, of Farmington, Utah, who was nurse-girl in our family in 1852-3.  She inquired after the Pomeroy girls and Miss Arabella Reed!  She was one of a family of English Mormons who were stranded in St. Louis.  My mother taught her to read.  She saw my name in a newspaper, and wrote me.  We are now as thick as three in a bed.  Her husband is a Mormon farmer.  They have ten children, and are otherwise prosperous.  We all unite in affectionate regards to Mrs. Gray and yourself, and we wish you the choicest of God’s blessings.

  As ever, sincerely yours,

  EUGENE FIELD.
  420 Fullerton Ave., Chicago.

Writing on June 28th, Field enclosed the dedication of the “Echoes from the Sabine Farm” to Mr. Gray, asking him to make any alterations therein which his taste or judgment might suggest.  “I have made this introductory poem rather playful,” he wrote, “with but one touch of sentiment—­the reference to your friend, our father.”  Field took more pride in the form in which the “Echoes” was got out than in the quality of its contents.  He was gratified and flattered by the sumptuous manner in which it was being published by Mr. Wilson.  “Of the edition of one hundred copies,” he wrote to Mr. Gray, “thirty will be printed on Japanese vellum, each copy to contain an original