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  Dear friend

The old story—nothing very new or different with me—Still jog along here as before—have been half sick a great part of this winter—yet every thing goes on comfortably with me—I am sitting here by the window down stairs, in my big chair, writing this—(the sun shining outside, & my little canary singing furiously in his cage in the corner)—I have occasional visitors—Wm Duckett is here yet—I don't get out much, the roads are so bad. Come up & see us & spend the day. George stop when you come up. Susan I enclose a letter Herbert sent me some months ago—nothing particular—Ed I still wish to sell my mare

W W