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  Dear Walt:

I am sitting here in my bark-covered study this bright sharp day, writing you this note. I look from the open fire that burns in the chimney, & the wood of which I cut & hauled up the hill myself, out of the window on to the river just covered with new ice, on off over the brown gray landscape. I am feeling well, better than one year   ago this time, my summers work I think has put something into me I much needed. I am still busy nearly every day in the open air. There is no snow & the ground for the past few days has been like iron. As soon as the snow comes we shall probably go to Po'Keepsie to board a while. Julian says he rather stay here, & he likes the country, & likes the school here. He learns well & begins to read books on his own hook. The other day at the close of the term of school he read his first composition in public. It was a real piece.   It was about "Papas Dogs" & gave much amusement. He spoke a couple of pieces also, & easily carried off the honors. He is now reading "Tom Brown at Rugby." I trust, dear Walt, you are better than when you wrote a couple of weeks ago, & that you will have a fairly good Christmas. If you are not in the mood to write me yourself ask Horace Trauble to drop me a card. Nothing notable comes to or happens to me. I read a little, write none at all, go nowhere, & try to make the most of the prose of life. If I could only continue my farm work or else hibernate like a woodchuck   I should be glad. If you have any late news from O'Connor please let me have it. With much love & a merry Christmas to you I am

Ever Yours John Burroughs