"Well, I told you doctors when I was so very bad, 'let me go; let me die.' I felt you would not listen to a word ... you would not think of it for a moment, and here I am.

"I chose to go. I may pull through it and have it all to go through again; it looks more so to-day than for a fortnight. You are all making a strong pull for me, I can see that."—Walt Whitman.

THE requirements in the nurse were maturity, experience in the care of sick men, and the ability to take notes and keep a careful record. Dr. Bucke engaged a suitable person, and talked freely and unreservedly to her about the patient, his physical condition and his eccentric habits. He said it was his firm belief that his life could not last more than a few days longer, and that he was confident that another such room as the one he was in, littered and uncared for, did not exist upon the face of the earth. He further said that his poor old friend had been in wretched health for some years past, that he was in no way able to look out for himself, and that he was in the hands and at the mercy of a designing and unprincipled woman,—the unrefined and ignorant widow of a sailor,—who as a housekeeper was unreliable and dishonest, and who alone was responsible for the condition in which the sick room was to be found. He added that it had been arranged that the nurse should go out to all her meals at the expense of the patient's friends; that she was to have nothing whatever to do with the housekeeper, and above all things she was not to allow her to enter the sick man's room. To put the matter to her concisely, she was, during the entire engagement, long or short as it might prove, to speak to but three persons, these being the two literary executors living in Camden, Mr. Harned and Mr. Traubel, and her own colleague, Warren Fritzinger. He told her that the first things he desired her to do were to get the sick room into order, and to begin recording the daily transactions; she must be careful to note all Mr. Whitman's words as they were uttered, and to write them down faithfully. Dr. Bucke spoke as one having full authority, and the nurse had no reason for disbelieving anything he had said. (And ever after believed that Mrs. Davis had been cruelly maligned (but by whom?) and that Dr. Bucke, who lived at a distance and saw little of his friend's home life, had been deceived and misled.) He assured her that money in abundance would be supplied for all the sick man's needs, and that it was the wish of his friends that he should have every comfort possible until the end.

By a second appointment Dr. Bucke met the nurse at the ferry, and they set out together for the dying poet's home, the Doctor, while crossing the Delaware, repeating and dwelling upon what he had previously said.

The ring at the door was answered by a pleasant, ladylike woman, between whom and the Doctor there was a show of mutual good feeling. The back parlor was given to the nurse as her room, and when she had laid her wraps aside Dr. Bucke led the way upstairs. To the relief of all Mr. Whitman had made no objections to a lady as nurse, and when she entered his room he extended his hand. A number of gentlemen were present, among them his brother George and the two literary executors, who had remained to take leave of Dr. Bucke. An artist who had just completed some etchings of the poet had sent him six complimentary copies, one of which he presented to his departing friend, at whose request he was raised up to autograph it. This, it was supposed, would be his last signature.

The prospect being that he would not only survive the night, but would pass it in comparative comfort, his friends and relatives left, excepting only his niece, Miss Jessie Whitman, the daughter of his brother Jefferson.

Poor Warren was overjoyed at the idea of going to bed, for in the last four days and nights he had had no rest, and since the chill, ten days before, had not found time to change or remove his clothing. While giving the nurse her instructions he confessed that he was completely done up, that such a siege as he had just passed through was worse than a storm at sea; nevertheless he wished and expected to be called at any moment if his services were required.

Mrs. Davis, totally unconscious of any ill feeling toward her and disposed to show every courtesy to the nurse, prepared a nice supper to which she invited her to come. What could the nurse do? No way had been opened for her to go outside to her meals—at least for the present—and no one except Dr. Bucke had mentioned such a thing; it was dark, she was in a strange city and ravenously hungry. She could not make up her mind to refuse and run off at once to seek a restaurant, especially at a time like this; could not risk leaving a patient so dangerously ill, even for a minute; nor could she desert the two weary people who were looking to her for relaxation and relief. No; she would sooner fast for the night. But fasting was not necessary; so descending the stairs, passing through the hall and running headlong into the flour barrel, she entered the little cabin-like kitchen.

Mrs. Davis was so worn out for sleep that even while standing her eyelids would close. She apologized, saying that she had been awake so many hours she was not at all herself. The nurse begged her to lie down at once, believing this weary, sad-looking woman must be a relative of her patient's, or a dear friend who had come there to bridge over the present crisis. Dr. Bucke had not mentioned the housekeeper's name, and the kindly, hospitable person who had been introduced as Mrs. Davis belied in every way the description of the sailor's unrefined widow. Besides, Warren called her mother.

The sick man required but few attentions during the night, and was so painfully still the nurse went to his bedside a number of times to assure herself that he was breathing. Warren came in twice to reconnoitre and turn him over, and when morning peeped into the window of the dull little anteroom and he found that no new complications had developed and that Mr. Whitman had not suffered from the change, he was jubilant over it.

After preparing breakfast, Mrs. Davis, as was her custom, went upstairs to sit with the patient while the others were below. She entered his room, and he—who up to this time had lain with downcast eyes, speechless, almost immovable—looked up, smiled, and exclaimed in a pleased voice, "Ah, Mary!" There was no mistaking the friendly relation between these two people, and before noon the nurse learned that the coarse housekeeper, the dreaded housekeeper, was no other than this pleasant, tired-out woman, whose kindness she appreciated because she had at once made her feel so much at home. What did the nurse think!

When Mr. Whitman was supposed to be dying, Mrs. Davis had in a way managed to meet the emergencies of the occasion; when a rubber sheet was called for, and no one offered to procure or order one, she gave her own oilcloth table cover to supply the need. When extra sheets were in demand and were not forthcoming from any quarter, she bought a piece of cloth, tore off the lengths, and was obliged to use them unlaundered and unhemmed, for even in this trying time only one person, besides her personal friends, had offered her the least assistance or inquired as to the straits to which she was put. This single exception was Mr. Whitman's sister-in-law, who had left a sick bed to come to Camden and do what she could.

When with the coming of the nurse, and cessation from immediate anxiety, Mrs. Davis found time to look around, she discovered more than an abundance of work. An enormous wash had accumulated, her boiler had given out, and damp and cloudy weather necessitated drying everything within doors. Then as the eaves trough had fallen down, and the kitchen ceiling leaked, Warren's skill in carpentering was in instant demand.

They found the nurse willing to assist in any way, and the housekeeper was delighted that she was plain spoken and matter-of-fact, and knew almost nothing of her patient as a writer; that she regarded him only as a sick and helpless old man, needing personal care, and not the adulation with which he was surfeited. Mr. Whitman himself took kindly to her, for like Mrs. Davis she never questioned him, and if she spoke at all, always touched upon the most simple, commonplace subjects.

On one occasion she ventured to say to him: "I suppose you would be disgusted with me if I told you that I had never heard of Leaves of Grass until I came here?" He laughed a little and replied: "I guess there are plenty of people in the world who can say the same. Leaves of Grass was the aim of my life. In these days and nights it is different: my mutton broth—my brandy—to be turned promptly and kept clean—are much more to me and appeal to me more deeply."

Little by little, much was accomplished; the sheets were hemmed, and the nurse with part of the small and only sum of money given to her soon had a new boiler on the stove; then when the table cover, which had become stiff, wrinkled and ruined, was replaced with a smooth rubber sheet, and a rubber ring purchased, which gave the patient great relief, and a few trifling articles secured, the money was exhausted. Mrs. George Whitman added some things to the supply, after which it fell to Mrs. Davis to resort to her own means as of old, and one by one the gold pieces—Warren's gift—melted away.

In the course of a couple of weeks the nurse learned that she was boarding at the expense of the housekeeper, and finding that no arrangements had been made to this effect she wrote to Dr. Bucke, laying the matter before him, as it had been agreed that she should write to him semi-weekly and in full confidence. In her next letter she told him of her own belief in Mrs. Davis as a most excellent woman; she enlarged upon her devotion to Mr. Whitman and his fondness for her, and expressed her great astonishment that a man of his experience could be so mistaken in anyone. In reply he wrote that he was pleased to know that he had been misled.

Mrs. Davis was much distressed in regard to the cleaning of the sick room. She feared it would make Mr. Whitman unhappy, and she felt that as his life was to end in so short a time, further indulgence might be granted him. But he was found to be not at all disposed to make objections; indeed, he was passive in the extreme, and when the nurse in any doubt or difficulty would occasionally appeal to him, he had but one reply: "Ask Mary."

To the surprise of everyone he lingered on, improving instead of growing worse, and by the end of the month had regained something of his former condition. He even wrote a few short letters, autographed the five remaining etchings, and a photograph for the nurse.

When the ominous symptoms had disappeared and he was not only out of danger, but quite comfortable, and Mrs. Davis had got the most pressing work well in hand, things assumed an almost unbroken routine. Warren took the night work, as reporters often came to the house at late hours and he was accustomed to meeting them; even friends would come thus unseasonably to inquire for the poet and perhaps beg for admittance to his room.

Yet there were many nights during the long sickness—lasting to March 26—when following a number of good days he would sink into a state of collapse, and then both nurses would remain up together.

As Warren did his home work in the forenoon, which was also his mother's busiest time, the nurse prepared the patient's breakfast and gave it to him; but seeing that he really preferred Mary's presence to her own, she often exchanged work with her, and the only actual difference was that Walt had three nurses instead of two.

Getting the sick room into order was a tedious task. The nurse was directed to leave every scrap of paper with writing upon it in the room, to remove only the newspapers, magazines, circulars, bound books, wrapping papers and so on. Then there were days when it was evident that Mr. Whitman wished to be alone, other days when he was very low and could not be disturbed, still other days when he had long visits from friends; and the work would have to be postponed for the time being.

All the newspapers and magazines were stacked upon the landing outside the anteroom door; the books—usually dropped anywhere, open—were placed upon the pine shelves; the manuscripts were piled upon one side of the sick room, and the old envelopes, wrapping paper and odds and ends of string alone were thrown away.

Warren's desk came in nicely, and seated at this the nurse wrote her record, going into the details and minutiÆ of the case, as she had been instructed. In this Warren took his part, and as he knew most of the people who called, his information and night notes were a valuable addition. A cot under the shelves in the anteroom, which had served as a bed for the nurses at night and a settee by day, was taken out and a comfortable lounge substituted, which had been hidden from view under the dÉbris in the other room. This gave both rooms a better appearance, besides providing a more comfortable seat and sleeping place.

Mr. Whitman did not take medicine with regularity; only when some acute pain or persistent discomfort rendered it essential. His temperature was never taken, his pulse and respiration but seldom; and in no way was he roused up, except for an unavoidable cause, or perhaps to meet company. He fully understood his own condition, and pleaded for but one thing: rest.

When he had his poor days—when it seemed that he could not again rally—he saw no one, and in the last two months he wished to see few beside his nurses, his two doctors (Dr. Alex. McAlister of Camden, and Dr. Longaker of Philadelphia), and his faithful Mary. He said that others tired him, and yet many saw him and held conversations with him, even at this late stage in his life. Colonel Ingersoll came twice, and sent him a basket of champagne, of which he took sparingly from time to time.

It was not so lonesome for Warren when there was someone associated with him in his work, and the nurse listened with interest to the stories he told of his early escapades, and of his subsequent adventures in strange countries and at sea. He could boast of having saved two fellow creatures from drowning, that is, if he were at all inclined to boast, which he was not. After awhile he confided the disappointments of his love affair, saying he thought it hard that after being engaged for over two and a half years, he had not, since he had assumed the care of Mr. Whitman, had the opportunity and pleasure of inviting and escorting his fiancÉe to an evening entertainment. The nurse thought so too; she sympathized with him; and his one untrammelled evening was when, unknown to his mother, she slipped over to Philadelphia, bought tickets and secured seats that he might have the gratification of taking "Coddie" to the theatre. This plot was several days in maturing, and when the secret was disclosed Mrs. Davis was terribly exercised, fearing that something dreadful might come up just at that particular time. She tried to dissuade Warren from going, but it was two against one, and he went. Nothing eventful occurred; Mr. Whitman was at his best, and when he asked for "Warry," and was told where he had gone, he was perfectly satisfied.

But day by day the patient steadily declined, and as one of his lungs was nearly useless, it affected his breathing to such an extent that his only relief was in change of position—"shifting," as he called it when he was being turned from one side to the other. He could eat while lying down, but could drink only when his head was raised with the pillow to support it. Often when Mrs. Davis went into the room to turn him, or to take him some little home-made delicacy, she came out in tears. What was said when the two were alone—if they spoke at all—was never repeated, never reported.

Mr. Whitman did not know that the nurse kept an account of his words, or wrote anything whatever regarding him; for of all things he disliked, the worst was to feel that there was someone at hand or just out of sight with pencil and paper in readiness for instant use.

One day Warren told him that his brother Harry's Christmas present was a little boy that he had named for him: Walt Whitman Fritzinger. This pleased the sick man, and he expressed a wish to see his little namesake. The child was kept in readiness for a week; then early one evening, when Mr. Whitman was feeling better than usual, he was sent for. His nurse brought him over, carried him into the sick room and laid him in the arms of the old man, who kissed the little fellow, held him a few minutes and repeated a number of times: "Well, well, Little Walt Whitman, Little Walt Whitman." There were present the child's mother and nurse, Mrs. Davis, Warren, and Mrs. Keller, Mr. Whitman's nurse. He never saw the child again, but often inquired after him, and added a codicil to his will bequeathing him two hundred dollars. (My name is on the codicil as witness to the signature.—E. L. K.)

The invalid had never bought himself a new mattress, and the one given him by Mrs. Davis seven years before—too wide for the bedstead and extending several inches beyond it at the back—had from long and constant usage become hollow in the centre, making it difficult to turn him from one side to the other, for he would often slip back into the hollow place. Warren once said: "When I come on this side of the bed you slip away from me." "Ah, Warry," he replied, "one of these fine mornings I shall slip away from you forever."

One evening a member of the editorial staff of the New York Evening Telegram visited him. Mr. Whitman knew that he was coming, and had made up a little roll of his writings to give him. (Mr. Traubel always made these engagements, met the parties and accompanied them to the house.) Upon leaving, the gentleman said that the paper had raised a fund wherewith to purchase flowers for the poet's room. Afterwards learning that the defective lung made the fragrance of flowers stifling to him, the paper requested that the money be applied in some other way. Mrs. Davis suggested a longer bed and a firm, level mattress. This was agreed to, the money came duly to hand, and the two nurses went together to select the bed. The one decided upon was a single one, made of oak and standing at least three inches higher than the old one; the mattress was of sea-grass. When the useful gift, which was a surprise to Mr. Whitman, arrived and was being set up—February 22, 1892—Walt was seated for the last time in his big chair.

Warren said it would be a pity to have this bedstead battered up as the old one had been—for the old man still kept his cane within reach and often pounded upon the footboard; so he rigged up a bell in the anteroom, and carried the wire over the door and into the sick room, where a drop string came down to the bed. Mr. Whitman found this an easier way of summoning aid; it was the "quaint bell" mentioned by two or three writers.

When the patient was settled on the new bed, he looked at Mrs. Davis and said: "You can have the old one, Mary."

The Evening Telegram gift was a great acquisition, and it is to be regretted, for the sake both of the invalid and those who waited upon him, that it did not come in some way years before.