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  Dear Pete,

Nothing special to write you, about myself, or any thing else, this week. Your letter & the Herald came last Monday. The time goes very tedious with me—& yet I think I am getting better, (but don't know for sure.)—Still have frequent bad spells.

—I stopt at the W. Philadelphia depot, Market street, two or three evenings ago, in the general passengers' room, to rest, about 10 minutes. Then took the car for Market st. ferry, (a mile and a half, or three quarters) & over to Camden, home.—I get desperate at staying in,—not a human soul for cheer, or sociability or fun—& this continued week after week & month after month—

 

So you met Johnny Saunders, in Baltimore, & he is flourishing. If you see him again, tell him to write to me,—he is a young man I always loved.

½ past 2—I have just had a nice oyster stew for my dinner—it is blustering weather, partly clear, partly cloudy, & one or two little flirts of snow to-day. I send you a paper or two, but nothing in them. I will try to stop in Philadelphia & find that little dictionary I promised you—

So long, my loving son,

Your old Walt