6:30 P.M. W. up and reading. In good mood. No sign of Harned today. W. again alluded to "that infernal forgery" and wondered "what the scoundrels proposed to do about it?" for "Surely it is a point they would not like to push to an issue." I had looked up Illustrated American. Nothing there but a paragraph. W. remarking, "I would not get the paper for that. It is hardly worth while. I suppose it contained nothing?" And after I had described it, "I am not at all curious. My days will get me over the bridge if I never see it!" The dog had barked when I came in and he had noticed it. "He is the dumbest dog that ever set foot in America! He never seems to learn to know anything!"
Reeder in to see me today to say he had sent some of his farm products over to W. and me. W. now, "Yes, a barrel of potatoes and some cider. They were timely enough—welcome every way. I want to thank Reeder for it all—warmly. You can do it for me."
I told W. I had gone home to work on the Poet-Lore piece the night before—had just got to work when Gilbert came in, keeping me chatting for an hour and a half or more, he not knowing the work I had laid out to do. Did not consequently get to bed till three o'clock, walking about a mile at 2:30 to mail the manuscript (I promised Miss Porter tomorrow, first mail). Called it "Lowell-Whitman: A Contrast." Will they take it? I doubt a little, but they may feel more warmly than I anticipate. It was vigorously written, without stint of word or thought. But W. was delighted when I went over its ground with him. "That is good—good. How Doctor will take to that! You have your hand on the right spot—you have the trowel by the handle. You have 'Leaves of Grass'—yes, I am sure of it. Sure enough, if they don't take it, some other will! That is a good spirit!"
The Reinhalter business is undoubtedly worrying W. though he will not allow it. "Was it a pit set for me?" he asks.
W. wishes to give Harned's two children (Thomas and Anna) complete books before all are gone.