The reader of Eugene Field's works will find scant acknowledgment of his indebtedness to Father Francis Mahony, but there are many expressions of his love and admiration for the friend who introduced him to the scholar, wit, and philosopher, by whose ways of life and work his own were to be so shaped and tinged. Among these my scrap-books afford three bits of verse which indicate in different degrees the esteem in which "the genial dock" of our comradeship was held by his associates as well as by Field. The first was written in honor of the doctor's silver wedding: _TO DR. FRANK W. REILLY If I were rich enough to buy A case of wine (though I abhor it!) I'd send a case of extra dry, And willingly get trusted for it. But, lack a day! you know that I'm As poor as Job's historic turkey-- In lieu of Mumm, accept this rhyme, An honest gift, though somewhat jerky. This is your silver-wedding day-- You didn't mean to let me know it! And yet your smiles and raiment gay Beyond all peradventure show it! By all you say and do it's clear A birdling in your breast is singing, And everywhere you go you hear The old-time bridal bells a-ringing. All, well, God grant that these dear chimes May mind you of the sweetness only Of those far-distant callow times When you were bachelor and lonely-- And when an angel blessed your lot-- For angel is your helpmate, truly-- And when to share the joy she brought, Came other little angels duly. So here's a health to you and wife: Long may you mock the reaper's warning, And may the evening of your life In rising Sons renew the morning; May happiness and peace and love Come with each morrow to caress ye; And when you've done with earth, above-- God bless ye, dear old friend--God bless ye!_ The second is of a very different flavor and shows Field indulging in that play of personal persiflage, in which he took a never-flagging pleasure. It has no title and was written in pencil on two sheets of rough brown paper: _The Dock he is a genial friend, He frequently has cash to lend; He writes for Rauch, and on the pay He sets 'em up three times a day. Oh, how serenely I would mock My creditors, if I were Dock. The Cowen is a lusty lad For whom the women-folks go mad; He has a girl in every block-- Herein, methinks, he beats the Dock-- Yes, if the choice were left to me A lusty Cowen I would be. Yet were I Cowen, where, oh, where Would be my Julia, plump and fair? And where would be those children four Which now I smilingly adore? The thought induces such a shock, I'd not be Cowen--I'd be Dock! But were I Dock, with stores of gold, How would I pine at being old-- How grieve to see in Cowen's eyes That amorous fire which age denies-- Oh, no, I'd not be Dock forsooth, I'd rather be the lusty youth.