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Walt Whitman Ill




Walt Whitman has not been out of his quaint little cottage home for ten days. Lying upon his old-fashioned four-post bed in a room strewed with newspapers, periodicals, and proofs, the poet said:

"Ten days ago I was tempted by the coming on of lilac time and the almost human tenderness in the atmosphere, to get up and go out, and as I was being wheeled about by my faithful attendant, I don't think I ever enjoyed the faint perfume of Spring in the air as I did that March afternoon. But I staid just a little too long in my unaccustomed wanderings, because I had not been out before during the month of March. It was after sunset when I got back to my home, and I enjoyed my supper better than I had for many a day, and slept all through the night. But when I woke up in the morning I knew I had the grip, and I had it bad. Thus far I have not sent for a doctor, because I feel sure I can wear the disease out. I take an occasional milk punch, which invigorates me, and but for an uncomfortable feeling in the throat I wouldn't mind it much.

"But such a day as this I begin to feel the joy of living again, and when I can once get into the open air constantly I shall soon be myself again. I can read the magazines, and my friends from abroad keep me advised as to what is going on in the world. I have this morning had a most delightful letter from John J. Pratt, the American Consul at Belfast."

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