Am getting along—more favorably turning than the other—relish'd my mutton-broth & dry biscuit—& am sitting here by the stove—sharp cold & clear to day—Yours of 17th came this mn'g—so the books arrived at last—& you are contented & pleas'd—& the trilogy holds together & fuses, tho' various & paradoxical & rapidly twittering, (probably like Dante's filmy ghosts, rushing by with mere gibberish)—yes it is mainly all autobiographic environ'd with my time & deeply incarnated & tinged with it, & the moral begetting of it (I hope)—The first time soon write whether you get every thing letters & papers—I have written now every day the last five days & sent budgets of papers or magazines—wrote a line to Mrs. O'Connor last evn'g—If I hear any thing I will forward you—I am sitting up all day, yesterday & this—I believe I told you the bladder trouble appears to have subsided—
3 p m—I have just eaten some vanilla ice cream—McKay has out an ed'n with the annex, Sands at Seventy. I have one—it goes all right—sells the same $2—the postage on the big book is 38cts—I put four 10ct stamps—I sent one by p o to-day—(the last page contains "Old Age's Lambent Peaks")—I enclose two letters—one from Logan Smith—one from Algiers, Africa—Love to you all & God bless you—
Walt Whitman