Sunny, cold, dry, very seasonable day, I continue on much the same—get out a little in wheel chair (but doubtful to-day—pretty sharp cold)—have quite rousing oak fire, & great wolf skin fur on my big-limb'd ratan chair—Alys was here Sunday, & I rec'd yesterday a nice letter f'm Logan—a day or two before the "Spectator" f'm thy father—(so I am not neglected or forgotten)—Give my best thanks & love to all—am writing a little (enclosed I fancy will be in Feb: Century)—three slips, one for thy father—one for Logan—
Probably every thing in our great United States (now 42 of them) goes on well all in a monotonous & matter of fact way—"blessed is that country that has no history"—we have an unprecedently humdrum President & big men, but down in the myriad inner popular currents the moral & literary & pecuniary & even political flow & good flow are grand—we can console our hearts with that—on a great democratic scale the present & here are probably ahead & better than all time past, or any other land—& thats what America is for—& that satisfies me—that general unmistakable certain trend does—I dont mind little bothers & exceptions & some hoggishness—
Love to you all— Walt Whitman