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Dearest mother,

Nothing new or particular—I send you an "Appleton's Journal," with some good reading in it—Well, mother, how are you all? Last night was a heavy rain here—I thought of your roof—the snow has all disappeared here—very pleasant yesterday indeed here—to-day the whole city looks all washed clean—

I went to a concert Tuesday night—very good—I heard a singer, Mario, I heard 30 years ago—an old man, now—yet he sings first-rate yet—then Patti, a lady—& others. It was in quite a fine hall here called Lincoln Hall—I go there once in a while—(an editor of a newspaper here sends me spare tickets some times—that's how I go, most of the time.)

I have got a letter from John Burroughs—he is at Middletown, N. Y.—don't expect to return here permanently to live any more—but will return to pack up & move—his wife is still here—I was up there a couple of evenings since—Mrs. B. is alone—has lately been vaccinated, & is not very well—there has been a good deal of small pox here—all the clerks in the office have been vaccinated—Well, mamma dear, I believe I have scribbled down all the small talk I can think of to amuse you for this time—Love to you, mother dear,

Walt.