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Oct. 14 1901

My dear Mother -

Walter MacPherson, my old friend is ill. He has been unwell for some time. The other day as he seemed rather ill and lonely. I asked him if he would not accept my brothers bed which is still there and rest near my fire until he felt better (his studio was so small, and dirty. He thought it was best. We called an American Doctor Gros, whom "Walt" knew personally to come and see him. The Dr. found typhoid symptons [[symptoms]] - and not wanting him to be moved I gave up my studio. He is attended by two American or English nurses. And the doctor who is the best here thinks there is little danger. The studio has been turned into a hospital. Please do everything possible to assure Walters father - when he calls. That everything possible is done here for his sons comfort and recovery. 

It has been a strange, and perhaps awkward position I have been placed in, which you'll know more about in the next letter. 

I have done little work in art the last week.  Homer's picture is postponed now and I can not promise the day of finish now.

I have seen a real flying machine. It flew in circles rose up and down, like a wierd [[weird]] animal it looked, and its engine made a strange rumbling in the air. It was all very wonderful to me. But if this letter should be preserved a few years no doubt our children would smile at this [[strikethrough]] crude [[/strikethrough]] mention of such common things being wonderful 

Transcription Notes:
.Reviewer: edits made, I don't think the corrected words need to be placed in brackets following the incorrect spelling, but left as is, ready to Complete ^^ there are instructions that this is OK to do, otherwise looks like we mis-typed