"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 above. If unfortunately one was missed, it seemed a long and tedious wait for the next. To Mrs. Davis this was both tiresome and embarrassing; embarrassing because of the lookers-on, and tiresome because during the delay Mr. Whitman depended mainly upon her arm for support.

All the conductors knew the picturesque old man, and were obliging and attentive to him. When he was entrusted to their care Mrs. Davis had nothing to fear; she was also confident that he would find a helping hand wherever he might go, so quickly doing her buying and errands she would hasten home, where a myriad of duties awaited her.

Mr. Whitman never gave a clue to his calculations—if he happened to have any—and consequently there could be no certainty as to the length of time he might be away. However, in the case of a ferry ride a few hours might be counted upon. Of these Mary would make full use; then as the afternoon lengthened and dinner time approached, she would grow restless and commence going to meet the cars. The return route was two blocks away, but the distance could be shortened by way of the back gate.

If Mr. Whitman was not in the first car met, she would hurry back, accomplish what she could in the next quarter of an hour, and then go again. Frequently when the car was not on time, some domestic calamity would occur; the fire would go out, or something burn, or a pot boil or stew over. In this case she would make what reparation she could in the limited time allotted her, then go again. This order of things would be kept up until Mr. Whitman's arrival; then would come the slow walk home, and the equally slow removing of wrappings, over-shoes and so on.

He always returned hilarious, braced up by the good time he had enjoyed, and totally unconscious that his housekeeper had had any extra work whatever, or a minute of anxiety on his account. The rides were indeed trying to her, and in pleasant weather he would go no less than three or four times a week.

Following the ferry ordeals, there came another unlooked-for tax, that of getting him ready for winter engagements and taking him wherever he had to go. There would have been less trouble in this if he had possessed a suitable outfit, but as he had made but few additions to his scanty wardrobe, the threadbare garments needed constant renovation. He had sufficient shirts, however, now; for soon after getting into his own house he had given her money for material, and she had made him six new ones. He himself superintended the cutting out and putting together, as they were to be fashioned with exactitude after the old pattern. With one of them he was particularly pleased, for around the collar and cuffs Mrs. Davis had sewed some lace edging of her own. This shirt he kept for special occasions, and never put it on without making some pleasant remark in regard to the trimming.

But of the two, Mrs. Davis had much the more pride in his appearance, for she had learned that he was often invited to meet distinguished people. She accompanied him on his way to all social gatherings, and unless other escort was assured, called for him. This, however, was of rare occurrence, as guests began to vie with each other in seeing him home. She also went with him to places of business in Camden and Philadelphia, at which times he depended upon her alone, both going and coming back. The task of walking with him was doubly burdensome when the roads were rough and uneven, or slippery with snow and ice, which caused him to cling to her arm with a grip of iron. He had lost strength in his lower limbs, but gained it in the upper, as Mary often realized, though Mr. Whitman was unaware of the severity of the pressure.

As he could not carry his cane in his left hand, the entire strain came upon her right arm, and as he became more and more dependent upon her, these walks grew almost unendurable; especially so when, for some purpose or other, or upon meeting a friend, he would thoughtlessly stand to talk, never releasing his grip.