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Men and Things



WALT WHITMAN reclined in the doorway of his Mickle Street house last night with a thick afghan covering his legs, and a stout bludgeon in his hand. The famous white hat sat on the top of his thick snowy hair, and the flickering gaslights played in unromantic shadows through his compact grizzly beard. "I am getting along very well," said he to a fellow poet. "My eyes are feeling pretty badly, and yesterday and to-day I consulted Dr. Nelson, the Philadelphia oculist. I feared that total blindness was coming on, but the doctor gives me hope that he will cure me. I have lost my poise in walking and cannot promenade at all. I go out every day in my carriage, and a friend of mine, Willie Duckett, a neighbor's little boy, always comes and goes with me. I still retain my hopeful, bouyant spirits. I feel better to-night than I have for several days."

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