It was while in New Orleans in the spring of 1894 that the following incident, illustrative of the boyish freaks that still engaged Field's ingenuity, occurred. I quote from a letter of one of the participants, Cyrus K. Drew, of Louisville: "I met Field on one of his pilgrimages for old bottles, pewter ware, and any old thing in the junk line. Some friends of mine introduced our party to Mr. Field and Wilson Barrett and members of his company then playing an engagement in New Orleans. Mr. Field's greatest delight was in teasing Miss Maude Jeffries, a Mississippi girl, then leading lady in Mr. Barrett's company. She was very sensitive and modest, and it delighted Field greatly when he could playfully embarrass her. One day I found him in his room busy on the floor pasting large sheets of brown paper together. He had written a poem to Miss Jeffries in the centre of a large sheet of this wrapping paper in his characteristic small hand--indeed, much smaller than usual. On the edges of this sheet I found him pasting others of equal size, so that the whole when complete made a single sheet about eight feet square. This he carefully folded up to fit an improvised envelope about the size of a Mardi Gras souvenir, then being distributed about the city. With the joyousness of a boy about to play a prank, he chased down-stairs at the noon hour when he knew Miss Jeffries was at lunch with Mr. Barrett in the cafe of the Grunewald. Calling a waiter, he sent the huge envelope in to her table. She glanced at it a moment and then gradually drew the package from its envelope, while Field and I stood watching behind the entrance. It spread all over the table as she continued to unfold the enormous sheet, and its rustle attracted the attention of nearly every one in the room. When it had spread itself all over Mr. Barrett, who meanwhile was laughing heartily, Miss Jeffries discovered the poem in Field's hand, and, although blushing crimson, joined in the laughter, for she knew he was somewhere about enjoying her discomfort." By August of this same year he had his "Love Songs of Childhood" in shape for the publishers, and had once more taken up the project of acquiring a home. What Field was doing, as well as thinking about, a little later is pretty accurately reflected in the following letter to Mr. Gray: