I had this afternoon called on Jo Fels at their soap-factory on North 3rd Street, and had been taken by him through the large establishment and had its mysteries more or less (some of them greatly less ) cleared. He insisted among other things that I should take a box of soap "for Walt Whitman," which I did, much to W.'s enjoyment. He slowly unfolded one of the cakes. "It is quite providential," he exclaimed—"quite in the nick of time—hits the nail square on the head... Now when you go out to the store, you'll only have to get the matches—the rest is provided for. And do you see how fine it is?—the color of it—the odor!"
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