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Cold the last two days & this morning a continued snow storm, quite brisk—well I laid in a cord of oak wood yesterday & am keeping up a good fire—had my breakfast at 9½—three or four oysters, some Graham bread, a cup of coffee & a bit of stew'd blackberries—(the b[read] bro't up yesterday by Mrs. Stafford, sent by her daughter Debby)—I am ab't the same—rather leaning to the easier condition of the last ten days, (with spells of down)—tho' this is the news of this mornings paper—

—Walt Whitman is gradually growing feebler, and has been confined to his room for the last few days by a heavy cold. He has done little work since completing his last book "November Boughs."

As I write Ed W is making up the bed—he is a good nurse to me & does well—I believe the big book is ab't done, & soon the binders will go at it—All I have meant in it is (as I have before told you) to make the completed, authenticated (& personal) edition of my utterances—a system of which L of G is the centre & source—Shall of course send you one of the earliest copies—tho' you may be here personally & receive one—wh' will be better still—

Have spent a couple of hours with Addington Symonds's "Greek Poets" and the Bible—full of meat to me, both of them—Have read Boswell's Johnson—also a long collation & brief Biog: of Kant in Prof: Hedge's "Prose Writers of Germany" (a big valuable book)—

1.40 P M—Yours of 22d just come—Sorry, sadly sorry, ab't Pardee—the direction is Hamlin Garland, Jamaica Plain, Mass:—I have not heard lately from O'C[onnor]—Have had a currying & bath—the sun came out an hour ago, but has gone under & every thing looks glum & cloudy—good blazing sputtering oak fire—

Walt Whitman