Your dear letter came this morning, enclosing Dr Channing's (herewith returned) Thank you & Dr. C. & dear Grace & Stedman & all—all the movements are certainly roseate toward me & I feel thankful & responsive—& all the confirmatory possible—
I am still kept in my room, hoping each day to get firmer & stronger & get out—but no such day comes yet—or even the indication of it—& to-day Saturday a fearful hot & oppressive baker & prostrater, the worst to my feelings, as I sit here, of any yet—there is no set back, so far—but if a long spell of hot unhealthy August weather sets in "the second time of that man will be worse than the first"—
The November Boughs (did I tell you?) is all done in copy—The printing office is now all diverged on a Harrison and Morton book, hurry is up—will take them a week—my Boughs will be at least two months before published—possibly longer—I remain in good spirits—It seems to be grow[ing] hotter & melter—
Walt Whitman