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I am more and more lost in admiration of this winter as time goes on. Near the middle of January and not a cold day or night yet! Today is cloudy, rainy, warm the roads sloppy. Pools of water and stretches of mud on all hands. "La Grippe" still rages around the Asylum. No one who has had it is entirely well again yet. Nearly all have had it and the rest are getting it with all conventient​ convenient​ speed. The last one in the house (little Robbie) got it yesterday and is quite sick today. Thank goodness we have got so far through with it. Willy Gurd who was the most sick of any of us is very much better. Comes down stairs to his meals now. The work at the Asylum (except what is absolutely   necessary from day to day) is at a standstill.

We will not pursue the subject!

That letter you sent of Symonds' which you sent me via Horace, Burroughs, Kennedy, &c. never reached me. I wonder where it stuck? Would you mention the matter to Horace? Perhaps he could do something.

I am reading nothing, doing nothing, writing nothing, seeing nobody, just waiting for the cloud to pass over. I feel strong and hearty—all will come out right after a little!

Love to you a thousand times R M Bucke   See notes 1/14/90