But really there is not much to write about.

Our prospects are as bare as your garden in November -- nothing but roots above ground or under -- some thrown together, and some, alas! to be dug for; only ours are not parsnips and carrots but a particularly tasteless kind called _Greek_ roots; with a variety denominated _algebraic_, of which there are quantities.

At these roots, or at some branches from the same, Governor and I are tugging as for dear life, so it is no wonder if our very hands smell of them.

I am sure I eat them every day with my dinner, and _ruminate_ upon them afterwards.

In the midst of all this we are as well as usual.