I will commence a letter to you, though there is nothing particular to write about—but it is a pleasure even to write—as I am alone a great deal yet in my room. It is about ½ past 8, and I am sitting here alone—I have been out to-day twice, riding in the cars—it is a change—the weather here is very pleasant indeed—if I could only get around, I should be satisfied—
I expect Peter Doyle in yet this evening, to stay an hour or two—he works every night except Sunday night—
Monday noon | April 7.
Well, mother dear, I am now finishing my letter, over at the office seated at my desk—I do not feel very well. My head is still so feeble—I suppose I ought to be satisfied that I do not go behindhand—I send you quite a bundle of papers to-day—One of the Graphics with one of my pieces in—the spring seems to be opening here, the grass is quite green, & the trees are beginning to bud out—it looks very pleasant—
Love to you, mama dear, & all— Walt.