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Nothing special to-day—weather fine, sunny—no doctor visiting—note f'm Century (Gilder) accepting my little poemet & paying—Yes I shall send it you when out—y'rs of 9th welcom'd—I show'd it to Ed—he is down splitting wood in his shirt sleeves.

Evening—I have pick'd up & been reading again Addington Symonds's "Greek Poets"—always fertile & interesting to me—The Boston Herald Jan: 3 has come, & I send it to you—Horace has been here—the three met at the binder's, & I am to have as designed by them a specimen of the good cover, &c. ready for my judgment this ensuing week—we will see—

Jan: 12—noon

Fine sunny day—Dr McAlister here (Walsh unwell)—good pleasant—young—Am sitting here in this monotonous same way by the fire, in the big chair—yours of 10th comes in the midday mail—a letter also from Hamlin Garland, Mass—I still read the "Greek Poets"—S's attempt to explicate the "Prometheus" play puzzle (essentially insoluble, as probably all first class puzzles are) is one of the finest bits of writing & argument I know—(I take a whack at it several times)—

Sunday Jan: 13

Another fine sunny day—just right—Continue well considering—my breakfast mutton-broth & toast—now sitting in the big chair with wolf skin spread on the back of it & the woolen foot-cloth in front on the floor, with a lap-spread on my knees—reading the Sunday papers, &c—seems to me the sun & day never poured down so copiously & brightly—Love to you & all—

Walt Whitman