I rec'd your letter, & was glad to hear from you—I am still in a pretty bad way—I am writing this over at the office, at my desk, but feel to-day more like laying down than sitting up—I do not walk any better, & my head has frequent distress—Still, for all that I slowly gain strength—very slowly—& shall yet get well as ever—
Every thing goes on about the same, in the sphere of my affairs, &c. as when I last saw you—Mother is at Camden—mopes & worries a good deal about me—I don't feel like leaving here, for visiting or any purpose, until I get so I can move about—The doctor is applying electricity, every other day—I have had it now five or six times—I anticipate benefit, in a while, but it makes no perceptible difference yet—How and where is 'Sula? I wish I was where I could come in & see her & you often—(those nice breakfasts were bright spots, & I shall not forget them)—if I could just get 'round and sit an hour or so for a change, & chat with 'Sula and you, two or three times a week, I believe it would do me good—but I must take it out in imagination—for it is impossible in reality—
I got a long letter from Dowden3—he mentions you—As I sit I look over from my office window on the President's grounds—the grass is green enough—they have already been over it once with the cutter, & Saturday there were men out there in their shirt-sleeves raking it up—I have a big bunch of lilacs in a pitcher in my room—Washington looks about the same—rather cool & cloudy to-day—but pleasant weather may-be by the time you receive this—best love to you & 'Sula4—
Walt Whitman