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April 13, 1868.
My dearest Mother,
I wish that I were sitting on your bed this bright morning, I have so many things to tell you, and my tongue is so much mightier than my pen. I think I hear you murmur under breath, "If wishes were horses," which I take as a hint to do the best I can with the materials in my possession. Imprimis then, what a jewel of a Father I have! It was so good of him to get me a watch, just what my soul craved. I wrote him a letter trying to thank him, but failed miserably. I was sick with a cold at the time, hardly able to sit up, and altogether lacking in any such trifles as wits. Now that I have recovered my health, I seem to be no better
Your loving daughter - Mattie -