Your letter came all right, & glad to hear from you, as always. There is nothing very new with me—I keep on about the same in most every respect—To-day, (Tuesday) as I write it is warm & bright, & I am going out to enjoy it—pretty much the same old round—over the ferry & up Market street, Phila , & stop occasionally at 23 south 9th st. where my books are pub'd . Now that my two books, prose and the poems, are out, I hardly know what to strike for—what to look forward to, as I used to—The Vols. are selling middling well—"Specimen Days" has been republished in Scotland1 & L. of G. is being translated in Germany2—
Tuesday night 10½—I am finishing my letter, as I have been out & only got back late—This will be a dry letter—but you must take the will for the deed—I send you a package of papers &c. once in a while, which I suppose you get—I came over to-night through the thick ice, filling the river—one big cake, half an acre, or more, hard & thick, I thought would conquer us, but it didnt, we crunch'd our way thro' —but it was a high old crunch & fight for ten minutes—& I enjoy'd it I tell you—
I have just been looking for your last letter to see if there is any special thing I ought to answer—but I cant find the letter—Never mind, Harry, dear—we'll make it all right when we meet—I have just written to your mother—Well my space is out, & there goes the clock striking 11—Good night, dear son—& here's a buss for you—
W W