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Every thing keeps on with even way. A slight head ache, or muddled condition. Y'r "impromptu criticism" letter corrected has been furnished me by the printer after all, & I will send you 15 copies—The cards in the little envelope are my dear friend Mrs: Harned & the new baby boy's, Herbert Spencer H[arned]—both are flourishing tip-top. Tom H. comes every day—my brother George also—my sister Lou has just visited me this mn'g—Y'r letter came this mn'g—The Boston Trans[script] (Kennedy) has a ¶ (Dec: 29) merely narrating that the big Vol. is printed & out—I have taken up & find myself curious enough, perhaps interested, to probably go thro' Tolstoi's "Confessions"—a strange product of our time, from Russia there—it is natural certainly, but morbific—a sort of Jack the Ripper treatment applied to himself—it is autobiographic of course—pathologic—

It grows cloudy & cooler—have had my ice cream & milk—your good letter of Dec: 31 comes—yes "hurrah for 89!"—letter rec'd from J H Johnston—his new store Christmas sales reach'd $45000—I have just scribbled a little 10-line poemet I think I'll sent to Century—Am sitting here alone by the wood fire—

Walt Whitman