
Quiet day—All goes well as usual with me—am sitting here same—Sarrazin has gone to New Caledonia a French colony, where he has a post (magistrat) at town of Nouméa—has written to me, nothing new or important seems to keep up his view of L of G.—
—Y'r letters rec'd—John Burroughs has sent me a good basket of grapes, & the word is that he will soon come himself—meanwhile he seems to be working & flourishing there on his fruit farm on Hudson river shore—no word very lately f'm the Smiths who are probably all down doing happily in the country at Haslemere (dear Mrs: Gilchrist's country)—Herbert is still out at Centreport, Suffolk Co: Long Island—was here in N J ten days ago, but did not call on me—Horace comes daily, is very good to me—is cooking up the piece all ab't me for Boston N E Magazine "W W at date" (good title I say) collating all sorts of concrete & personal bits not literary criticism (first rate)—
The 50 big books have been box'd up & sent off to England—have eaten oysters my meals several times lately they are good, plenty & cheap here now, (& for coming season)—Mrs: D cooks them to just suit me—agree with me markedly—Enclose J W Wallace's letter lately rec'd (can send photo: of him & friends on a card if you care to have it—I have two such cards)—
—Did I tell you I am composing a prose piece under the name of "Old Poets—(and other things)"—don't know what I sh' make of it—moderately short—ab't 2½ as I close this—Shall lie down now a little—in ab't two hours have my supper & then get out an hour two in wheel chair—
Walt Whitman
