a much improved appearance, often commented on.

His brother, his good sister-in-law, his other relatives and all his friends rested in peace. They knew the hands he was in, the shoulders upon which the burden had fallen.

V

CURIOUS NEIGHBORS

"Mr. Whitman and his housekeeper were closely watched by some curious people who had never lived near a poet before. In addition they minded their own business. That Camden should contain two such people in one street was enough to create wonder."—Thomas Donaldson.

THE inhabitants not only of Mickle Street, but of contiguous ones, were deeply interested in the strange couple who had come to live among them, and kept a close watch upon every movement. Their vigilance troubled Mrs. Davis, for she could see no reason why anyone should be curious about them. It was different with Mr. Whitman, who never saw anything he did not choose to. "I don't think a man ever existed so entirely indifferent to criticism and slander." (Sidney Morse.)

If Mrs. Davis chanced to go to her front door, half a dozen women would appear at theirs; if she swept her sidewalk, her broom seemed to set in motion half a dozen others. If she left her house for five minutes or remained away for hours, she would find sentinels awaiting her return. Sometimes as she was approaching home she would hear a shrill childish voice call out: "Mama! Mama! here she comes!" Or she would see a young urchin—presumably on guard—scamper into the house to give the alarm.

"They seemed always upon the alert, and saw to it that whatever went into Mr. Whitman's house should have an eye escort in and an eye escort out." (Thomas Donaldson.)

From behind curtains, shutters and blinds Mrs. Davis could see and instinctively feel eyes fastened upon her, and what appeared especially remarkable was that this intrusive neighborly interest failed to die out or lessen with time. It was a matter of genuine personal curiosity, keen and continuing, and not of the transient attention any newcomer might awaken.

Unquestionably there was an atmosphere of perplexity and perhaps suspicion in the locality. For one thing, extravagant and impossible as it may seem, it had been rumored about that some people who entered "The Poet's" house never came out again. A frequent caller during Mr. Whitman's first years of housekeeping says:

"Opposite, as I slid into the house one day, sat a bundle of dirt with bread and sugar upon it, on watch. As I hurried in I heard it yell, 'Hurry, Mama! A fat man at Whitman's door!' and presently a female watcher of two hundred and fifty pounds pattered to the door, wiping her fat arms on a checked apron. I heard her say as she retreated, 'Jimmie, watch if he comes out!' This confirmed the suspicion I had long had, that someone in the vicinity held that persons entered but didn't leave the Whitman house, and that they mysteriously disappeared." (Thomas Donaldson.)

This is no doubt curiously exaggerated; the woman probably only wished to get another glimpse of the "fat man" as he came out; but it is interesting as showing the feeling of a visitor. The effect of such conditions upon a woman like Mrs. Davis, living in the house itself and constantly exposed to the oppressive surveillance, might well have been serious. But she had a placid disposition and took things quietly. She was not at all disturbed because none of the older watchers made overtures towards an acquaintance.

It was different with the young people, however, for after their awe had somewhat subsided they began to be venturesome—to show their hardihood perhaps—and soon became quite familiar, making the cellar doors (old-fashioned slanting ones) their regular rendezvous. Here they would come to "mind babies," to hold mimic school and singing classes, to play games, keep house, take lunch and eat taffy purchased at a little corner store. Undoubtedly one inducement for their constant visits was the chance of getting one of the pennies that rolled occasionally out of the window above. Before summer had ended they had grown decidedly sociable, and in one of their favorite pastimes—running up and sliding down the cellar doors—each would pause for a moment at the top and peek in at the "good gray poet" as he sat anchored in his great chair, and ask, "How do you do to-day, Mr. Whitman?"

The poet's original style of dressing was probably one reason why he attracted so much notice. He wore gray clothes, large of make and uncertain of fit, with an open vest, over which was turned the broad collar of his shirt. The latter, during his entire sojourn in Camden, was invariably made of a good quality of unbleached cotton. He preferred this to any other material, and he could not tolerate a separate collar, starched bosom or necktie. He despised an ordinary pocket-handkerchief, and carried instead a generous piece of soft cotton or cheesecloth. His wide-brimmed hat, always looking the worse for wear, was usually turned up in front.

All this, with his size and long white hair and beard, made him a picturesque individual, and it was only natural that he should be recognized at once as a decidedly uncommon person.

Walt was an invalid and infirm, nevertheless when he was equipped and started he could go unaccompanied to Philadelphia and other nearby places. This enabled him to call upon friends, transact matters of business and keep in touch with the world generally. Sometimes he would take an extended ride on a street car, but the greatest source of enjoyment to him was a trip back and forth on the Delaware River. From the ferry boat he could feast his eyes upon ships—"those floating poems" (his own words)—either in the distance or passing close at hand. And here he was sure to meet some old acquaintance or to make a new one, and so feel himself still a factor in the busy bustling life around him.

Pleasant as were these rides to him, each one brought more or less tribulation to Mrs. Davis, for governed as he apparently was by the impulse of the moment, she was never given warning of his intentions or allowed time for preparations. His excursions therefore were a trial she had not counted upon. He would not mention the ferry, or hint of going there, until he was seated at the table, or more likely had finished his breakfast. This made much extra running up and down for Mary, who could have simplified matters by having him dressed to begin with for the weather and the occasion.

This did not seem to occur to him. Crippled, slow, and requiring so much assistance, and feeling that neither his own time nor that of anyone else was of much account, it was often past noon before he was ready for the start. Then Mrs. Davis, who always saw him safely on the street car, would hurriedly don her outer garments, for Mr. Whitman had little patience with delay in other people. The housekeeper helping the poet down the front steps was a sight none of the neighbors would willingly lose, therefore the couple always sallied forth under the musketry of glances shot out at them from every direction.

When walking in the street Mr. Whitman carried his cane in one hand, and with the other he clung tightly to the arm of his companion. His size and weight (even now, in spite of his invalidism, he weighed two hundred pounds) would have made a fall a serious matter.

The street cars—horse cars, running at fifteen minute intervals—on their way to the ferry crossed Mickle Street at the first corner