BERANGER

  Viens, mon chien!  Viens, ma pauvre bete! 
     Mange, malgre, mon desespoir. 
  II me reste un gateau de fete—­
     Demain nous aurons du pain noir!

  PROUT

  My poor dog! here! of yesterday’s festival-cake
               Eat the poor remains in sorrow;
  For when next a repast you and I shall make,
  It must be on brown bread, which, for charity’s sake,
               Your master must beg or borrow.

  FIELD

  There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend,
     Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: 
  But feast to-day while yet we may,—­
     Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!

The credit for verbal literalness of translation is with Prout, but the spirit of the fiddler of Beranger glows through the free rendition of Field.

[Illustration:  “FATHER PROUT.” Francis Mahony.]

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!_