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I get so sleepy and stupid—come over to the bed, then go back again—and that is about all my day's story

I went straight in and put my hands on the book immediately.

"No, I will go over to my chair—write it immediately. That will get it off our minds."

"Give my love to Frank when you see him"—this the parting shot as I passed out the door.

W. responding, "Never mind, Frank—that's but a part of the evidence of my good will.

And further, after I had stated the main lines of my argument, "That would be just what we wished.

The odor very perceptible, the instant I opened the door, and my eyes lighted on it. "Oh!

Amy's the name of my grandmother. Amy is now out in Oklahoma or some such place West."

If I have the trick of music—verbal music—at all, I owe it to the great singers, actors: they were my

There is camerado, and my great word, Presidentiad"—with a laugh—"which some don't think so great.

"Well, I don't know if it would be called that: he said something, so did I—I suppose my part of little

Scrawled to Bucke a note in which I enclosed the Doctor's and my bulletins for a month.

I was glad enough to hear this and went at once to the next room to my overcoat, bringing the contracts

Warrie, bring my glasses," which Warrie did, likewise bringing the rest, asking W., "Shall I lift you

I went straight in and W. knew me and called out my name—I then going direct to the bed and shaking hands

I excused my interruption.

My specification of Bucke's constant letters caused him to exclaim ardently, "Dear, dear—ever dear—Doctor

You will tell him all needful things, facts, about my condition.

Lingered a while and read my mail. Burroughs writes a postal, 22nd.

Very loving and cordial, as always: held my warm hand in his cold palm and remarked its warmth.

In my usual round found W. had passed a pretty good night.

Was not asleep and I went in, shook hands with him, and wished him my good morning, as he wished me his

In next room stopped to read my mail, which I had just received at Post Office, and contained letters

He is quite a brook but Whitman is a Mississippi that runs through all lands.Give my love to the brave

I did not stay much beyond this—yet he held my hand, on "good-bye," in such a way, I took my disengaged

You have more chapters than me to write still: my last chapter is done."

I expressed my own protest, but he insisted, "Have it your own way, anyhow!"

And to my reply, "We have heard nothing for six weeks," he exclaimed, "You must write her up—find out

Then my good-bye!

As luck would have it, W. rang shortly after my arrival and we went into the room together.

My early round not so early as through the week. Ed Stafford in parlor chatting with Warrie.

Several times in my stay of half an hour he called Warrie by ringing the bell.

I read my mail while there—letters from Hallam Tennyson, Bucke, Wallace, Mary Ashley. W.'

On my "good-bye" I kissed him and stroked his head. "God bless you!" That and I left.10:18 P.M.

s letter and McAlister's last bulletin to Bucke: made the matter up from this and my talk.

Was in the room for ten minutes and more, at one time going up against the bed and even putting my hand

Sometimes I think I eat too much—am not cautious enough—though caution is one of my strong points, too

At my mention of Bucke, "Dear, dear Doctor!" And of Ingersoll, "Dear, dear Ingersoll, too!"

Would he object to my giving copy of his Bolton letter to Kennedy for the Transcript?

The old ferry has been a part of my life, not to be wiped out but with life itself."

W.: "Easier—not at my worst." Warrie: "How does the cough—eased up?" W.: "Kind 'o—" (Pause.

I go to my work with lighter heart.6:08 P.M. A second look in at 328. News there bad.

Friday, March 4, 1892W. slept easily on my morning round (8:20 A.M.). Looked a trifle flushed.

I recovered my footing, and Mr.

My love to him—it's all I have of use.Mrs. B. & I talk of you & Mrs.

"Yes, to my sister" (and had enclosed money).

And to my negative he answered, "It is odd—you have heard from about everybody else."

this letter from Gilder: Editorial DepartmentThe Century MagazineUnion Square, New YorkMarch 3rd, 1892.My

My best love to Walt.Yours sincerely,R. W. Gilder Thought best to wait—not refer to W. just now.

My work great—from early morning to midnight—putting correspondence in all the odd moments of all the

and with my "oh yes!" I was instantly at the bed and grasped his reaching hand.

Heine, "The moon is up and shining," and he continued, "In the old days it was such an hour I took for my

Told him my facsimiles had not arrived yet. "That is too bad, and yours the most important of all!"

condition, "He is undoubtedly on the down road again: I detected impairment in the few days between my

Give her my love & sympathy, poor dear girl!

It is my intention to mount and frame it, and have it on the most conspicious wall of my house where

Tom spoke of Hodgins as a friend of Bucke, W. calling Bucke "my best friend."

Will write to Staffords myself & enclose facsimiles.I cannot write much tonight, though it is my last

think of Walt & to realize his condition all the time.It is a long, heavy, terrible strain for you, my

But I cannot overstep my limitations & circumstances. It is as foolish as vain to seek to do so.

I trust that you both realize that I give you from my heart what you have so nobly won, & steadfastly

My eyes filled with tears. I kissed his hands—his eyes opened an instant—looked me ineffable love.

My heart rejoiced for him. Mrs. Keller getting ready to go. No mail whatever for W.

And to my "yes, last week," he replied, "I think of her often. She is a woman out of the few."

He pressed my hand, "Well, good night—good night, Horace."

s at six, but he had anticipated my card, arriving at two, and so missing me.Ingersoll telegraphs me

All I can say is give him my love & tell him that he will always have one friend no matter what happens

He inquired just the other day, "I wonder if my Harper's poem is lost irretrievably?"

And having it open in my hand, I read some passages.

Give him my love—yes, again and again."

I also had letters from Johnston and Wallace in my hands. He exclaimed, "Good! Good!"

I hardly see how I can and moreover think it not my place so to do.

"I know you, bless you for it: you do without my injunctions."

Davis, and he instantly recognized me and called my name, "Horace? You here?" and we shook hands.

he asked, and to my "yes," he asked, "Is it very cold?"

"Always my love." I described the cold clear skies and the moon ascended north-east.

I kissed him good-bye and he pressed my hand, "Good night, Horace: bless you! Bless you!"

My dear Traubel,Hearty thanks for your letters to myself.Johnston, Wallace & Carpenter have sent on to

correspondence, & to sympathise most deeply in all your hours.And there I have your photograph upon my

It revolutionized my previous conceptions, & made me another man. Revolution is always a bad thing.

previous environment and my own feeble self.I pour all this out upon you now, because, while Whitman

Glad you have my book. Have you two nurses now?

He had just been turned on my arrival, so I went in, the room black enough.

But he must have been awake, tiptoeing it as I did, and knew my step or somehow knew I was here.

After he recovered he finished my name and we shook hands.

On my questioning saying, "I have spent a dreadful day, seemingly to get deeper and deeper into the mire

and pressing my other hand, which he held.Johnston sends me a couple of Bolton papers in which are notes

He opened it, my hand dropping to its clasp, which was weak."Morning.""

I am on my way to work—to the busy desk over there in the big town.""Luck!""I tire of it at times.""

Telegram here from Ingersoll, evidently in response to my letter: "We all send words of love and hope

Remarked as to Stedman's criticism on my Poet-Lore piece, "Stick to it—it's the only way."

He pressed my hand, "Well, bless you, you are always good to me." "No, only as one having love."

My love to her. It is curious you do not hear from Mrs.

He was not asleep on my entrance—his eyes wide open, facing the light.

"Yes, that is my idea, but I leave the final decision to him.""

Yes, say it is my wish—wish, not order: I acknowledge his privilege.""

Found my letter from Arthur Stedman awaiting me.

He did not indicate his knowledge of my presence.

Whitman and my next door neighbor—and my neighbor is now dead."

'My idea is...'""That's right—you've got it.

I had taken Bucke's note of the 14th out of my pocket.

Yes, got my rest on the bed—wrote my sister at Burlington. I am very lame.

Friday, March 18, 1892W. not asleep on my round (8:15) but not in shape to say much.

During my visit was turned on right side but could not lie long; cough soon annoyed him.

He saw me and called my name.

Then I asked, "Did Webster send you a check for my fund?" "No, no check—it was only a letter."

I hurried in, the Bolton letter in my hand.

My mail contains letter from Bucke, 17th, which anticipates an early end for W.: 17 March 1892My dear

"So you did—he is in the next room"—at which she called my name and I responded.

He repeated the sentence after me, "Will give me 25 books—five for my own use, 20 for my friends?

Wd. you give him my love & reverence, if manageable.At the crisis of his recent illness I was of course

And again, "On my right side I choke. One way or another I suffer all the time."

I did not attempt to show him my letters.

It is impossible to say why I have not done so—pardon my procrastination, which, with regard to my private

correspondence, I am afraid is one of my sins.

Here at my work I am delighted. I like my work—I am partly on the Ledgers & partly at the Counters.

I intend giving our Clarke permission to quote from my Notes but my feeling in regard to the letter is

Of course I cannot venture to give my opinion on the matter.

My eyes grow moist as I realize the sad, sad situation.

May heaven guide you to wisdom, my dear friend, my comrade indeed, my brother beloved.

'Good-Bye, My Fancy'—based, absorbed in, the natural.

And as he pressed my hand, he said slowly, "Good night." Mrs.

He murmured a "good morning," but I decided not to press my presence.Talcott Williams writes with his

last fund remittance: "I enclose my check for a dearly loved service." 1:20 P.M.

"No, not in the least: my days are dreadful—dreadful." "With pain?"

I turned to W. and gave him my "Good night," which he returned, raising his hand, which I kissed as he

of its poets.Tell W. that I beg of him to give me through you a little light to help me forward with my

"I feel as if every bone in my body was being shaken up."

W. said to him, "The last 15 hours have been the worst in my experience."

This last day has been the worst in my history—and it's been a hard history, some parts of it."

So I tried my own hand in the box in the corner and really found half a dozen.

Also I have your "Telegram"—many thanks.Now as for my attitude towards Arthur Stedman and his book?

In my hand an astonishing document—notice from Providence of the marriage of Mrs.

To my questions as to pain he said he did not have any.

On my good-bye he pressed my hand ardently. "You will go on the water-bed tonight."

My heart stood almost still.

My heart was relieved. Home, then, and sleep. Thursday, March 24, 1892

free and winged words—words that have thundered and ennobled the hearts and lives of millions—that my

As she fixed the bed, she mentioned my name, "Mr. Traubel is here."

Also Bucke—24th—calling my attention to "Death's Valley," not knowing I know too that it was not unchangedly

"Yes, dreadfully—all over—wipe my face, please," adding the "please" after she had commenced.

It struck my heart, yet it was the hourly fear at last fulfilled.

Over my head the little bell.

I laid his hand quietly down—something in my heart seemed to snap and that moment commenced my new life—a

And I found my mother and father and Tillie still at supper and they were shocked at my news, yet could

My suggestions. Harned wondering why no word from Bucke. No callers.

sickness but will be on hand at funeral please telegraph me arrangements.Francis H Williams New York 27 My

I send my unutterable sorrow. What can I do?"

Harned's views are my own that Mr.

Bucke says, "My God! It was like to wreck us all!

Bucke with me to my home to see Anne and talk.

My telegram from Ingersoll relieves us all.No heart for details for Bolton.

Tuesday, March 29, 1892Hunted about some for New York Herald—going to ferry—getting my mail on the way

My engagement with Bucke had been that we meet there and commence at once to box up the papers.

on Wednesday, having a duty to perform in Baltimore, I send by express to you to-night a big wreath—my

Responses to my telegrams come.

Could not deliver my telegram. And this message made me very happy: "I will come. Wrote you today.

A few minutes, too, with my mother, and some parleying at the Post Office.

My father would not come here, though he went to Harleigh.

(My heart smote me: his last ride—now, into the rift and mystery!)

My daughter & his second daughter, Helen, were intimate friends, & from my sister, Mrs.

my name, & that is what I did not like to do.

92My dear Traubel,I am sorry that I could not be with you and the other friends again this evening: My

wife was quite miserable when I returned from my engagement and I felt I could not leave her.

Saturday, April 2, 1892All the papers moved to my house today. Bucke took supper at McAlister's.

without an owner: Anderton, near ChorleyLancashire, England15 March 1892Dear Walt,Just a line or two, my

dearest friend, my comrade & father, dearest of all to my soul, to express the triumph & joy & cheer

with which I think of you & with which I receive tidings of you.Outwardly sad enough, but deep within my

Be it as if I were with you, & here upon the paper I send you one as a token of my dearest love.

(An added word yet to my song, far Discoverer, as ne'er before sent back to son of earth— If still thou

If he did he has paid me the greatest tribute of my life.

The best part of my success is that it has come while I am doing a work whose spirit is in part Whitman's

My extended travel and study of literature make me capable of speaking decisively here.Once again Hail

—adding upon my assent, "I guess they are Walsh's—yes, Walsh's."

Further, "And Stoddart, too—yes, now you remind me—by all means—and with my best affection.

s and in to see him—no preliminaries—he knowing my step and greeting me, "Welcome, Horace—and love!

They are my greatest dread: they tear me up by the roots." Asked, "How is Whittier?"

W. turned his face half my way, put his right hand up to his ear and listened, eyes open.

When you write him, Horace, do not forget my word—love, only love—it is all I can send now."

s—and when into his room, found him, eyes open, alive to my presence.

Fairchild's letter, received last night: Boston, Jan. 12.My dear Mr.

and my trumpet-call to the end of my life.Will you tell him this?

—and that my thoughts are often with him in love and veneration.

And again, "Bless her and give her my love!"

"I shall make my best show to read them." Asked me about temperature—news, etc.

greeted each other lovingly and he said at once, "I am here still, dear, you see—and trying to eat my

"He was always William's and my friend—and he will appreciate—will measure up—this piece."

Give him my love and the love of us all. Mrs.

Then give him my love—my love for all: for wife, daughters—and though I am hard beset, assure him not

the least of my benefits is his, their, love."

Repeated to him my interview with McKay.