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Am so-so—Sitting here as usual—had the old half-trembling sapless leafless tree in front cut down & the walk brick-paved over this forenoon (was afraid it w'd fall & perhaps hurt some one)—all done by a stout young black man in less than two hours—$2½—(& I gave him a glass of sherry)—was satisfied with the whole job—goodbye old tree—how long shall I linger behind?—("Why cumbereth it the ground?")—Harpers Monthly man rejects my poem—says it is too much an improvasition —An Englishman (in an eulogism with the money) sends a letter rec'd this mn'g for a pk't-b'k L of G—Alice Smith, the dear delicate cheery girl, is over this afternoon & pays me a good long sunshiny visit—I have been down in the little front room for a change—dark cloudy half raw weather—inclined to rain—

Evn'g—½—moderate & rainy—Tom Harned here—Horace too— Have been reading J T Fields's "Yesterdays with authors"—read the Hawthorne piece, every line—then the others—full of letters, good idea —If any one throws up to you the praise (or sweetness or eulogism) of your W W book—let him read these two pieces ab't Hawthorne and Dickens—gossipy but very interesting this book of Fields—am sweating moderately to-night—

Sunday forenoon Oct. 27—Rainy & dark—buckwheat cakes & honey & coffee for breakfast—a fairly good night—sitting here alone by stove— bowel action at 10—head mussy (?catarrhy) sore & aching, half uneasy—reading the Sunday Phil. Press—this enclosed piece is (I suppose) in Nov. Century—as I take it Mrs. O'C is yet in Boston—

Walt Whitman