One nite per weeke is soothly not Too oft to leese hym from yr. chaynes; Thinke of my lorne impoverisht lotte And eke my jelous panges and paynes; Thinke of ye chekes y stille do owe-- Thinke of my quenchlesse appetite-- Thinke of my griffes and, thinking so, Oh, lette me have hym pay-daye nite!_ Along the border of this soulful appeal was engrossed, in a woful mixture of blue and purple inks: "Ye habbit maketh mone over hys sore griffe and mightylie beseacheth the ladye yt she graunt hym ye lone of her hoosband on a pay-daye nite." Through those years of comradeship we were practically inseparable from the time he arrived at the office, an hour after me, until I bade him good-night at the street-car or at his own door, when, according to our pact, we walked and talked at his expense, instead of supping late at mine. The nature of this pact is related in the following verse, to which Field prefixed this note: "While this poem is printed in all the 'Reliques of Ye Good Knights' Poetrie,' and while the incident it narrates is thoroughly characteristic of that Knightly Sage, the versification is so different from that of the other ballads that there is little doubt that this fragment is spurious. Prof. Max Beeswanger (Book III., page 18, old English Poetry) says that these verses were written by Friar Terence, a learned monk of the Good Knight's time." _THE GOOD KNIGHT TO SIR SLOSSON The night was warm as summer And the wold was wet with dew, And the moon rose fair, And the autumn air From the flowery prairies blew; You took my arm, ol' Nompy, And measured the lonely street, And you said, "Let's walk In the gloom and talk-- 'Tis too pleasant to-night to eat!" And you quoth: "Old Field supposin' Hereafter we two agree; If it's fair when we're through I'm to walk with you-- If it's foul you're to eat with me!" Then I clasped your hand, ol' Nompy, And I said: "Well, be it so." The night was so fine I didn't opine It could ever rain or snow! But the change came on next morning When the fickle mercury fell, And since, that night That was warm and bright It's snowed or it's rained like--well. Have you drawn your wages, Nompy? Have you reckoned your pounds and pence? Harsh blows the wind, And I feel inclined To banquet at your expense!_ The "Friar Terence" of Field's note was the Edward J. McPhelim to whom reference has already been made, who often joined us in our after-theatre symposiums, but could not be induced to walk one block if there was a street-car going his way. As bearing on the nature of these "banquets," and the unending source of enjoyment they were to both of us, the following may throw a passing light: