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Dearest mother,

I write this lying in bed yet—but I sit up several times during the day now, for a few minutes at a time—am gradually gaining the use of my left arm & leg—(the right side has not been affected at all)—think I shall be able to move round a little by Sunday—The Doctor has just been—he says I am doing very well—

John Burroughs is here temporarily—he comes in often—Eldridge and Peter Doyle are regular still, helping & lifting & nursing me—but I feel now that I shall soon be able to help myself—

I slept quite well last night—It has been very cold indeed here, they say—but I have not felt it—as I write, it looks pleasant & bright, the sun shining in real cheerful—I see by Sister Lou's letter that you had no news from St. Louis—poor, poor Mat, I think about her often, as I am lying here—I have not written to Han since I had the paralysis—Mother, you might send one of my letters to her, Han, when you next write—(this one, or any)—Say I sent my love, & will be up before long—

Well, mother dear, & Sister Lou & Brother George, I will close for the present, for this week—Will write Sunday—but I understand the mails are a little irregular this weather—

Walt.