Although he had been situated so auspiciously for his comfort, and in a way to attain the great object he desired, Mr. Whitman's past four years had not been all sunshine. He had had spells of deep depression, days when he felt no inclination to come downstairs, or even to speak; and during the winter of this year the dark cloud hovered more persistently above him than ever before. For one thing, there were weeks when extremely cold or stormy weather prevented his going out of doors. Mrs. Davis had much sympathy for him while the dreary mood lasted, and in many ways endeavored to dispel it. During the inclement weather she found in her cheery canary bird a valued assistant, and knowing the old man's fondness for the little fellow, she would at times stealthily place the cage in his room, "and let the sun shine out for a moment, this bird would flood the room with trills of melody." (The canary outlived Mr. Whitman, and through his long sickness, lasting from the summer of 1888 to the spring of 1892, it was always a welcome visitor in his room.) This would act as an inspiration, and Mr. Whitman would often take this time to write to some friend, always mentioning the singing of the bird and the shining of the sun.
"Pleasant weather as I write seated here by the window, my little canary singing like mad."
"Sunny and summery weather here, and my canary is singing like a house on fire."
"Dull weather, the ground covered with snow, but my little bird is singing as I write."
Good cheer may have been another comforting agent, for he writes: "We have (Mrs. Davis has) just had a baking. Oh! how I do wish I could send the dear frau one of our nice pumpkin pies, a very little ginger, no other spice."
"A cold freezing day. Have had my dinner of rare stewed oysters, some toasted Graham bread, and a cup of tea."
"Have had a bad spell of illness again, but am better to-day. Have just eaten a bit of dinner for the first time in over a week—stewed rabbit with a piece of splendid home-made bread, covered with stew-gravy."
"Have just had my dinner—a great piece of toasted Graham bread, salted and well buttered with fresh country butter, and then a lot of panned oysters dumped over it, with hot broth; then a nice cup custard, and a cup of coffee. So if you see in the paper that I am starving (as I saw the other day), understand how."
In speaking of Mrs. Davis in a letter of the previous summer, he writes: "Very hot weather here continued. I am feeling badly, yet not so badly as you might fancy. I am careful and Mrs. Davis is very good and cute."
"Am idle and monotonous enough in my weeks and life here; but on the whole am thankful it is no worse. My buying this shanty and settling down here on half, or one-fourth pay, and getting Mrs. Davis to cook for me, might have been bettered by my disposing some other way, but I am satisfied it is all as well as it is."