8 P.M. W. not at home—had gone to the river with Warren about an hour before. I sat at the door waiting and in about 10 minutes he came wheeling along. Cordial and bright. Sat out in his chair and talked. Yet quietly disposed this evening, too—and I did not disturb him except here and there to say some occasional word.
I had a note from Buxton Forman today, which I read him. "You should send him a book," W. said—adding—"I acknowledged the 25 dollars he sent me—also sent him the books—expressed them: they made too big a package to mail."
"Not extra well," he replied to my query about his health, "only as well as the law allows." Saluted (as they he) most of the people that passed: "Good evening, ladies," to some—and to a child—"How do you do, dearie,—little dearie"—putting out his hand and receiving its own timidly offered, the child shyly looking at him the while. Then it was, "How do you do, Uncle Danny," to the ferryman that passed, and "Ha! Frank! is that you?" to some one that I did not know; and then a word now and then to a neighboring child, with a piece of ice in its hand. Then he had his chair turned around to avoid the glare of the electric light, sitting in the shadow of the tree.
Harned met Scovel today who admitted he had made the Times matter up complete out of the birthday book. W. would say no more than "the great Jim!"—and laugh.
I reminded W. that McKay had never been invited to the dinner—that till today I had not even thought of his name. "Oh! that was unfortunate! It did not occur to me either."