I gave some particulars a few weeks ago of the large amount of property which had been extracted from Bulgaria by Prince Alexander, who arrived at Sofia penniless, except for a sum of money which was advanced to him by the late Emperor of Russia. It is now asserted by the American papers that Prince Alexander has made considerable purchases under an assumed name (Alexander Marie Wilhelm Ludwig Maraschkoff) of real estate in Chicago, Denver, Kansas City, and Omaha, and that he is part owner of one of the largest sheep ranches in New Mexico. The Prince's property in America is under the charge of Colonel Norton, a well-known attorney of Chicago. Prince Alexander must be possessed of a true Yankee cuteness if he managed to squeeze the "pile" for these investments out of Bulgaria in addition to the £70,000 to which I referred recently. The Russian papers have accused him of dabbling in stock exchange speculations, and if disposed for such business, his position must have given him some excellent opportunities of making highly profitable bargains. Thus was Prince Alexander convicted of having burglarized Bulgaria upon an invention which should not have deceived Mr. Labouchere. How that ostentatiously manufactured alias ever imposed on Truth passes comprehension. Is it any wonder that at one of our numerous mid-day lunches "Colonel" Norton fired the following rhyming retort at Field?-- _TO EUGENE FIELD Forgive, dear youth, the forwardness Of her who blushing sends you this, Because she must her love confess, Alas! Alas! A lass she is. Long, long, so long, her timid heart Has held its joy in secrecy, Being by nature's cunning art So made, so made, so maidenly. She knew you once, but as a pen In humor dipt in wisdom's pool, And gladly gave her homage then To one, to one, too wonderful; But having seen your face, so mild, So pale, so full of animus, She can but cry in accents wild, Eugene! Eugene! You genius!_ The deep and abiding interest Field felt in the fortunes of Prince Alexander may be inferred from his exclamation, "When Stofsky meets Etrovitch, then comes the tug of Servo-Bulgarian war!" He took no end of pleasure in starting discussions over the authorship of verses and sayings by wilfully attributing them to persons whose mere name in such connection conveyed the sense of humorous impossibility, and he thoroughly enjoyed such suggestions being taken seriously. Once having started the ball of doubt rolling he never let it stop for want of some neat strokes of his cunning pen. Several noteworthy instances of this form of literary diversion or perversion occur to me. There never was any occasion to doubt the authorship of "The Lost Sheep," which won for Sally Pratt McLean wide popular recognition a decade and a half ago. Its first stanza will recall it to the memory of all: