New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1915-11-18
WALT WHITMAN'S
OLD HOWE SOLD
Hammer Falls on House
Near Huntington, Birth
place of Gray Poet.

Walt Whitman's birthplace was sold
at auction yesterday. The old brown
home of the good gray poet near Hunt
ington; Long Island, with its surround
ing farm buildings and ninety-two
acres of land, was knocked down TO
John d. Rolls, a real estate dealer Of
Deer Park, for $4,000. 1t is believed
that this marks the end of the square
pre-revolutionary house, where the
great souled man spent his childhood
and early youth. Mr.. Rolls would make
no statement in regard 10 the future
of the property, but 1t is rumored IN
Huntington that it is to be cut up into
building lots.
Such house Whitman might have
built for himself, broad, ungainly,
stubborn of outline, tanned and
weather beaten of hue.
There appeared TO be no one m the
crowd gathered there yesterday fitted
to chant its requiem. It's members
were farmer folk. but of breed that
lived in a different world from that
which the author Of Leaves Of
Grass" loved and sang. There were
Italians and Germans. Swedes and Rus
SLAMS every possible variation OF the
hyphen. A sprinkling of the fast van
shIng American farmers were there,
but with fur coats instead of the ira
ditional overalls, and motor cars in
stead Of buggies. America has changed
since Whitmans day, and the old
house has outlived its generation.
II looked lonely yesterday lonely
and ashamed. In front of the stems.
where the poet must often have sat and
dreamed his boyhood dreams, which.
perhaps, he had in mind when he
wrote:
81 loaf and invite my soul
81 lean and loaf at my ease, observing
spear of summer grass"
they were selling beer TO the farmers
across a sloppy, lnoleumed kitchen
table
From dusty, ancient window panes
the old house looked out alphabetically
at the gathering that shouted bids for
corn planters and ploughs within its
shadow. Frank j. Rogers. its owner
up TO yesterday, was selling out at auc-
ton. 1t was not that the dwelling
I minded his going. II was hard to be-
lieve that il could regret the passing
of one who had plastered the rooms in
which Whitman had dwelt with wall
papers of purple and green. But it
seemed out o. pace IN the blatantly
modern gathering. Ii looked awkward
and apologize.
In one of the violently papercd rooms
stood the fireplace where the boy of
yesteryear must often have sat of cold
days, like yesterday, dreaming. Per-
haps it was here that he heard OF the
"oldtime sea fight" listening wide-eyed
ITO the yarn. as my grandmother s
father, the sailor, told it to me-"
The depths of the old hearth were
obscured by primitive painting of
! Moro Castle, or Great South Light, or
some such interesting seascape. with
peacock blue surges and d steamer
which had evidently met several sub
marines in the course of long, hard
existence.
Outside the air was sparkling and
cold. Beyond the crowd in the barn
yard stretched tanned fields and brown
woodland. November haze brooded over
the trees and pastures.
"My tongue, every atom Of my blood.
formed from this soil. this air."
About the house were beer bottles
and "hot dogs" yelling auctioneer
and restless, sordid crowd looking for
bargains. At one corner of the al"
stood a forked pole bearing between
it's branches rusty, wide-mouthed
farm bell that must often have called
Walt to dinner. Its voice was gone
now, and when one pulled the frayed
rope. il spoke in the feeble cracked tone
Of the very old.