
Fine sunny weather—I sit here alone pretty dull—this physical brain business (whatever it is) uncomfortable enough—(I have not probably the grip but I suppose I must pay my toll one way or another)—have been writing a little poemet "Twilight Song" & sent it off to the Century—so you see I have not escaped the harness yet. Y'rs rec'd—then Matilda Gurd is dead—I remember her well & most favorably—my sympathies & condolences to Mrs: B and you—Mrs: Davis has gone off for a couple of days (more or less) to see an old relative & friend a sea-captain, appears to be very sick perhaps dying—in Bucks Co: Penn—Harry Stafford has been very ill but better now—an addition also to his family, baby boy—Alys Smith here yesterday—have had my midday massage, have two, one bet: 12 & 1—& one at 9 before I go to sleep—rather gusty wind—Keep a good fire—the great vulgar excitement here is the LeConey murder trial—an unusual muddle & paradox—
Finish this up in my den—am now going down in the little sitting room while Warren goes out on some errands—
Love to you & all— Walt Whitman
