I thought I would write you a line once more, but no particular news to send. Everything goes on much in the old way (and always has, and always will, I reckon, in this old world).
I am alive, and here, in the same locality, but pretty feeble. Wanted to thank you again, and more specifically, dear E.C., for the help you have so kindly sent me—you and my dear friends the two Misses Ford, to whom I send thanks and love.
I have just had my dinner, (buckwheat cakes, and tea, good). I am sitting here in the little front room downstairs writing this. Always love. Write.
Walt Whitman.