In his old house—an ‘unlucky castle now’ pervious to wind & snow—lay his old clothes his outmost cuticle curled up by habit as it were like himself upon his raised plank bed. One black chicken still goes to roost lonely in the next apartment—stepping silent over the floor—frightened by the sound of its own wings—never-croaking—black as night and silent too, awaiting reynard—its God actually dead.

  And in his garden never to be harvested where corn and beans and potatoes had grown tardily unwillingly as if foreknowing that the planter would die—how how luxurious the weeds—cockles and burs stick to your clothes, and beans are hard to find—corn never got its first hoeing.

Dear Sir,

  Mrs Brown [Lucy Jackson Brown] wishes very much to see you at her house tomorrow (Saturday) Evening to meet Mr Alcott. If you have any leisure for the useful arts, L. E. [Lidian Emerson] is very desirous of your aid. Do not come at any risk of the Fine.

R. W. E.