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  Dear "Walt Whitman"—

For years I have owed you a debt. I would not say it in any other way—so I am trying to get others to take from you just as largely. I am writing a paper for one of our Boston Clubs—and it is to be all about you—on your Leaves of Grass. Of course it has all been better said, but I must have my chance just the same.   I am defending your Children of Adam. All at once it occurs to me: "Why—these were written years ago. He is older now. He may wish he had written differently. In a few years I may not defend them so vehemently. I had better ask him what I shall say." So—this letter goes to trouble you. I want more than I can tell, to go to you, to sit beside you and talk about death and life; I know how birth and the beginning   of birth seem to you now—after these years of illness and years of religious thought—and years of looking into the far future. You may not be able to write—but what can I do? Shall I go on and will you trust me to say that every line, if rightly read, will give help?

Dear Walt Whitman: For years I have wanted to write to you—but knew I had no right to take your minutes and your strength. Now I seem compelled—yet—fear to trouble. Forgive me   if I need not have come even now—and believe me—your grateful friend—and—may I not say lover?

A. H. Spaulding Princeton St. 9. Boston. E.