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Sun shining brightly & gayly as I write—The grip has seized me at last—bad case of aggravated cold in the head &c. &c. with chest, throat, joints &c: badly affected—bad enough, this is the fourth or fifth day, but if it passes off at these (wh' I think it will) will think myself lucky—As one thing I wish to speak the "Death of Abraham Lincoln" once more April 15—(probably the last time, ab't the 12th or 13th)—They are thinking of a sort of dinner in Phila May 31 in compliment of my beginning on my 72d year, but we will see. Every thing is going on much the same—am sitting here as usual by the fire—weather mostly unpleasant and dark & stormy—I get out at intervals in wheel chair—appetite & sleep not even as well as before—but I hardly call them real bad yet—good bowel action day before yesterday—eye sight failing, bad sometimes—

Suppose you rec'd 2d number of Stead's magazine I sent—Did I tell you the (London) Universal Review, Feb. 15, prints an article (mark'd "in French") ab't me—I don't know whether it is the old article we know or a new one—the May Century coming is to have a little poemet of mine—I will send you a couple of printed impressions on slips—Harry Stafford has given up his telegraphing & RR job and moved to a nice (hired) farm with his wife & two childer—he is poorly—the mind-clouding was temporary—(the worst of course is the eligibility of returning & worse)—¼ to 2—I have had my massage—y'rs of 30th comes & is welcome—the April Century comes—the pretty deep snow of yesterday eliminates—the spring shows itself apace—what a tough old rosy earth it is after all (& itself saying nothing ab't it—no bragging or whining or chinning)—

God bless you all— Walt Whitman