7.30 P.M. W. in his room—not appearing extra well, nor feeling so—for he said: "This is one of my bad days: I have had rather a bad spell today: I live by spells and spells." He asked after "news"—saying, "I am told by the folks here it is a fine night. Is it?" I read him part of a letter received today from Lincoln Eyre in regard to the fund, W. remarking: "It would seem that the Lord not only permits but provides us friends at last—even lets us turn up a Jack now and then, as they say in cards!" Said: "I really must make some struggle to get out-of-doors—but the temptation to stay here—rest here—settle—is very great, usually triumphant."
I see he has cut the leaves out of Bucke's black-bound annual report, pasted a sheet of white paper over the gilt lettering and commenced to use it for the disposal of his scraps. It is on the table with the "annex to the annex" (of November Boughs) now growing bulky. He is very curious to see a copy of the New England Magazine—proposed yesterday that I write for one. A copy arrived anyhow today. I promised to leave it with him in the morning on my way to Philadelphia. He studied the sample sheet I had from Mead—dissected the reprint of the cover—"And this," he asked—pointing to the leafage—"is this the Mayflower or what? And this boat—is it the boat Mayflower? It has all the form—high at both ends—thick—even like Columbus' boats." I only stayed a few minutes.