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  Dear Pete,

It is pretty much the same with me, as when I wrote my former letters—still home here with my mother, not busy at any thing particular but taking a good deal of comfort—It has been very hot here, but one stands it better here than in Washington, on account perhaps of the sea-air—I am still feeling well, & am out around every day.

 

There was quite a brush in N. Y.​ on Wednesday—the Irish lower orders Catholic had determined that the Orange parade protestant should be put down—mob fired & threw stones—military fired on mob—bet.​ 30 and 40 killed, over a hundred wounded—but you have seen all about it in papers—it was all up in a distant part of the city, 3 miles from Wall street—five-sixths of the city went on with its business just the same as any other day—I saw a big squad of prisoners carried along under guard.  —they reminded me of the squads of rebel prisoners brought in Washington, six years ago—

—The N. Y.​ police looked & behaved splendidly—no fuss, few words, but action—great, brown, bearded, able, American looking fellows, (Irish stock, though, many of them)—I had great pleasure in looking on them—something new, to me, it quite set me up to see such chaps, all dusty & worn, looked like veterans—

Pete, dear son, I rec'd​ your two letters, & was glad to get them—

—Mother has been quite sick, & I have been sort of nurse, as she is here alone,   none of my sisters being home at present—she is much better this morning, under my doctoring—

—Pete I see by your letters that every thing goes on right with you on the road—give my best regards to my friends among the drivers & conductors—Dear son, I shall now soon be coming back, & we will be together again, as my leave is up on the 22d—I am now going to take a bath & dress myself to go over to New York. Love to you, my dearest boy, & good bye for this time

Walt.