Here I linger along like a dead wither'd tree yet ("why cumbereth it the ground?")—not much different but steadily declining—yet spirits middling fair—& appetite & sleep fair—wh' is all something to be thankful for. If I were able how I sh'd like to come down there & be with you all—I often think ab't you all & ab't old times over at the Creek—Debby was here yesterday, & she & the little girl were welcome & cheer'd me up—what a sweet little rose bush she is!—(She reminds me in her looks of Jo, & then of her grandfather Geo:)—Susan, thank you for the nice chicken—I enjoy'd the eating of it well—I am sitting here in my den alone as usual—the sun is shining finely & I shall probably get out in my wheel chair for an hour. Love to Harry and Ed and all—& a happy year 1890 & God's blessing to all of you—
Walt Whitman