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  Dearest Son,

I saw the RR. smash the first thing in the paper in the morning, & run my eyes over the account with fear & trembling—& only on reading it over a second time, was I satisfied that you were not in it—poor souls! for I suppose every one that was in it, had some who heard or read the news with pain & terror—some parent, wife, friend, or child—poor Buchanan—but I hope, from accounts, that he will get up again, before long, without serious damage—The papers here publish full, & I guess very good accounts of the whole affair—I liked what the Star said so plainly—that the cause below all others, of such accidents, is because they run such a route, over a single track—you may remember my warning on the same point three years ago, in a talk with you

 

Pete, this spring finds me pretty much in the same tedious & half-way condition I have been lingering in now over two years—up & around every day, look not much different, & eat pretty well—but not a day passes without some bad spells, sometimes very bad—& never a real good night's sleep—yet still I have a sort of feeling not to give it up yet—keep real good spirits—don't get blue, even at my worst spells—I am sitting here to-day as usual alone in the front room, by the window—feel pretty comfortable—the weather is bright & pleasant here to-day, but cool for the season, & the most backward I have ever known—My sister is going away for some 10 days to-morrow or next day, & I shall be quite alone in the house—wish you could come on & pay me a visit—Would you like to have me direct any letters or papers to the American Hotel, Balt.​ or shall I just direct to you at Wash.​ as usual?

—love to my darling son— Walt