December 30th, 1861.
My dear Mother:
I hardly know what you all think at home — Hall gets married, and I send no word of congratulation; Walter sends me a beautiful present, and I return no word of thanks; Horace writes me a letter full of kindness, and it lies still unanswered; your letters come with such regularity, and yet are hardly better treated. You have been waiting, I suppose impatiently, to receive some news, but I have been obliged to be silent, for I have been quite ill with a fever. I am better this morning, so I write to set your mind at ease. I am under the charge now of Dr. McDonald, who is excessively kind and supplies me with every comfort a sick man could desire, such as clean sheets, cheerful faces, currant jelly, easy chairs, etc. I do not feel much like writing I must say, and, after I’ve told you I am now getting along very comfortably, you will excuse me from making this letter a long one.
With best love,
Very Affec’y.,
W. T. Lusk.
