"For such a lover of nature not to be able to get out of doors, was a calamity than which no greater was known."—Thomas Donaldson.
THE first winter over, spring came and was passed in about the same daily routine; but before the summer was far advanced Mrs. Davis was convinced that the old man's walking days were rapidly drawing to a complete close. This troubled her greatly, and during one of Mr. Thomas Donaldson's frequent evening visits she talked earnestly with him about it.
Mr. Donaldson, the poet's intimate and constant friend, was a practical man; one ready to listen to the suggestions of others, and to assist in forwarding their plans. Between him and Mrs. Davis there was a mutual understanding; each knew the other's worth. He had always shown consideration for her; had sought her out in her own house, and stood manfully by her side in her ministrations to the invalid.
She told him she was certain, from the number of letters Mr. Whitman received, his many visitors from other cities and abroad, his increasing list of invitations and requests for personal interviews, that he must be a man in whom others were deeply interested.
She said that for some time she had had a plan in her mind. It was this: that he should write to Mr. Whitman's friends—as he knew just who they were—and solicit a subscription of ten dollars from each of them, the fund to be appropriated to the purchase of a horse and carriage for the poet's use.
Mr. Donaldson fell in with the scheme, and thirty-one of the thirty-five letters written by him received prompt replies, and in each was the sum asked for. As the gift was to be a surprise, only a few friends were let into the secret. A comfortable buggy was ordered and a gentle pony selected, as it was supposed the drives would be quiet ones, in suburban places.
On the fifteenth of September all was completed, and Mr. Donaldson came over in the afternoon, ostensibly to make a call. He found his friend on a lounge in the front room, and seating himself commenced to chat with him upon the topics of the times. This he continued to do until he heard the gift carriage drive up to the door. His young son Blaine sat by the driver's side.
Mr. Donaldson went to the window, and Mr. Whitman hobbled after him to see who had arrived. "Bless me," he said, "what a fine turnout! And there is Blaine! Well, well, how the lad does seem to fit it; how comfortable it does look! What does it all mean?"
"It certainly does look comfortable," Mr. Donaldson replied, "and Walt, it's yours." This statement he repeated twice before his astonished friend could believe he had heard aright, and even then he did not appear to take in or comprehend the full meaning of such an announcement. While still dazed and hardly himself—impassive as was his natural demeanor—his friend handed him a letter containing the names of the contributors, in an envelope with $135.40 enclosed. Mr. Whitman read the letter and was completely overcome; tears trickled down his cheeks, and he was unable to articulate a word.