Too bad—too vexatious—Wednesday forenoon was so dismal & slippery—& I not at all well—(am having some bad spells lately)—thought you would on not finding me at McKay's come right over here, as it is only 20 minutes to get here, & the cars pass my door—look'd for you all the afternoon—the sorest pinch is I feel now it is all my bungling fault.2
—Nothing very new to write about—McKay and Dr Bucke are in treaty about the Dr's book, with the probability of Mc publishing it3—
To-day, afternoon feels like a precursor of spring so fresh & sunny—I am not busy at any thing particular—(Seem to be like a skipper who has come into port at last & discharged cargo—& don't know what next.) Who did you see in New York? And exactly how are you? Write soon—& freely
Yours as always Walt Whitman4 loc.01146.004_large.jpg loc.01146.001_large.jpg loc.01146.002_large.jpg