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Yours came yesterday and welcomed. I am here yet and allowing for the wear and decay-change, the situation continues much the same. You know I am well on my 71st year—lame and almost helpless in locomotion—inertia like a heavy swathing ample dropping pall over me most of the time, but my thoughts and to some extent mental action ab't the same as ever (queer ain't it?)

I have had my daily mid-day massage (another just as I go to bed). Tho't of going out a little in my wheel chair but it is bitter cold today here and I shall not. I have just sent a half-page poem to Gilder, they have accepted, paid, proofed it, and I believe it will be out in May number.

I have just had a drink of milk punch—am sitting at present in my two-story den in Mickle St, alone as usual, more buoyant than you might suppose

Walt Whitman