Curiously monotonous with me—I am still kept in the same sick room, unable to get out, even down stairs—don't seem to retrograde in some main respects—but little or no strength or the vim & go that underlie all going & doing—John Burroughs has been to see me, the dear good fellow, I was glad to have him, & his talk did me good—he is not very well, is troubled with persistent insomnia—works at physical labor (on his own land)—not much of late seasons on essay or book making—I had a letter day before yesterday from O Connor—he has great trouble with an affection of the eyes—one lid remains fallen, & the other eye sympathises with it—seems to be at his desk in the Life Saving Service office daily—I hear f'm Dr Bucke" every day or so—T B Harned was here an hour ago—is well & busy—Horace Traubel is faithful to the utmost—I have not heard a word from Dr Knortz ab't that German translation being printed by publisher Schabelitz, Zurich Switzerland (I believe I told you Rolleston in Ireland sent me word he had rec'd first proofs)—I forward with this mail a copy of November Boughs—McKay will be the publisher this coming week—What has become of the W W plaster bust? Has it gone to Concord—or is going? Sidney Morse is in Chicago—I remain in fair spirits & comfortable—am just going to have my dinner (I live neither abstemiously nor generously, two meals a day)—Splendid sunny October day—rather quiet—Love to you & yours—
Walt Whitman