
Feeling middling—am scribbling a little—I believe the ensuing Century is to print my little poemet "My 71st Year"—& I think of sending off a piece to Harper's—sent it off Friday evn'g—w'd make a page—fine sunny weather, now the third day—A young rather green fellow, Charles Sterrit, came over here as candidate for my new nurse & helper— could not tell only from practical trial—is to come Monday—what slight impression I had was rather pleasant—we are all sorry Ed is going— every thing has been smooth & good without anything—no hitch or anything of the kind—bowel action this forenoon—pretty fair I guess these late & current days—am sitting here in my den, alone as usual—have rec'd the Boston "Transatlantic," it is like Harper's Weekly in form, & semi-monthly—Y'r letters come—thanks—O how beautiful it looks out—the sun shining clear—& the active people flitting to and fro—
9 P M—am sitting here alone—comfortable enough—Ed has gone over to the theatre with one of Mrs. D's boys—
Alys Smith (the dear handsome gay-hearted girl) has come back and was here this afternoon—all are stout & well & hearty over there in London—Mary least so, but she not ill—I guess "society" (a great humbug) is a bad strain on her, & the responsibility of household & two little children—& Mary is not a rugged girl—
Saturday, P M—ab't same—right as can be expected—have rec'd Arnold's printed letter in Lond. Telegraph & will send you by-and-by—A is on the Pacific en route—Horace comes regularly—the nurse:dislocation bothers us (but all goes into a life time)—
Love to you all— Walt Whitman
