7:20 P.M. W. in parlor. Had been out. Talked freely. Said, "Yes, I am better today. I breathe more freely. Night before last I was awake all night with inability to breathe. It is this catarrhal trouble—this cold. I call it, grip." Was very particular asking as to "news" of "the event," and of course I told him what I knew. "I suppose I'll see some of the posters in my wanderings," he said. "Yes, and in your dreams afterward, they so stare one in the face!" He laughed, "I hope not that: as a rule I am a pretty solid sleeper—have little active dreaming, anyway." Then he asked me to get him a copy of big poster for Bucke. "You know Doctor keeps anything about us—has a
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perfect collection of Whitman curios—and this belongs with 'em."
I received following letter from Baker today:
W. listened as I recited it to him—much interested: also in New York Press item—curiously full of errors, etc.
Josephine Lazarus writes that she cannot come.
Clifford sends word that he is working on "Academy" piece for Conservator. Bad retreat for Morris.
Letter from Law. I had told him the Arnold letter was a forgery. He answers, "Why not call a spade a spade and Jim a shovel?" W.'s laughter at this was very sizeable. "A bright word! And why not a shovel, to be sure!"
Has written note to Ingersoll. Speaks of his "greater cheer" since feeling better. Says of Ingersoll, "It certainly must look to the world as if he were going over to the enemy."