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Yours of 11th just rec'd—it is a fine bright morning, just the right temperature—I am feeling better to-day—freer (almost free) of the heavy congested condition (especially the head department) that has been upon me for nearly a week—Took a long drive yesterday & have been living much on strawberries of late—Don't write much—just sold & got the money for—& it comes in good, I tell you—a poem to Lippincotts—(Mr Walsh editor—friendly to me)—poem called "November Boughs," a cluster of sonnet-like bits, making one piece, in shape like "Fancies at Navesink"—that ("November Boughs") is the name, by the by, I think of giving my little book, I want to have out before '87 closes—shall probably print it here in Phila: myself—it will merely give the pieces I have uttered the last five years, in correct form, more permanent in book shape—probably nothing new—I see a piece in Saturday's June 11 N Y Times that Boyle O'Reilly is treasurer of my summer cottage fund—(dear Boyle, if you see him say I sent my best love & thanks)—I wish you fellows, Baxter, Mrs F[airchild], yourself &c, to leave the selection, arrangement, disposal &c of the cottage, (where, how, &c) to me—the whole thing is something I am making much reckoning of—more probably than you all are aware—the am't shall be put of course to that definite single purpose, & there I shall probably mainly live the rest of my days—O how I want to get amid good air—the air is so tainted here, five or six months in the year, at best—As I write Herbert Gilchrist is here sketching in my portrait for an oil painting—I hear from Dr Bucke often—nothing now of late from O'Connor, who is still in So: Cal—My friend Pearsall Smith & his daughter sailed for England in the Eider last Saturday—

Walt Whitman