all, in each
yard, and a flower pot, with a plant in it, placed on each bracket.
One of these prisoners was worse than all the rest. He was the most
hardened man that had ever been in that prison. His temper was so
violent and obstinate that no one could manage him. The keeper of the
prison was afraid of him, and never liked to go near him. He was such
a disagreeable-looking man that the name given to him in the prison
was "Ugly Greg." A little rose bush was put on the bracket in Ugly
Greg's yard, and the effect produced by it is told in these simple
lines, which some one has written about it:

"Ugly Greg was the prisoner's name,
Ugly in face, and in nature the same;
Stubborn, sullen, and beetle-browed,
The hardest case in a hardened crowd.
The sin-set lines in his face were bent
Neither by kindness nor punishment;
He hadn't a friend in the prison there,
And he grew more ugly and didn't care.

"But some one--blessings on his name!
Had caused to be placed in that house of shame,
To relieve the blank of the white-washed wall,
Flower-pot brackets, with plants on them all.
Though it seemed but a useless thing to do,
Ugly Greg's cell had a flower-pot, too,
And as he came back at the work-day's close,
He paused, astonished, before a rose.

"'He will smash it in pieces,' the keeper said,
But the lines on his face grew soft instead.
Next morning he watered his plant with care,
And went to his work with a cheerful air;
And, day by day, as the rose-bush grew,
Ugly Greg began changing, too.

"The soft, green leaves unfolded their tips,
And the foul word died on the prisoner's lips;
He talked to the plant, when all alone,
As he would to a friend, in a gentle tone;
And, day by day, and week by week,
As the rose grew taller, so Greg grew meek.

"But, at last they took him away to lie
On a hospital bed, for they knew he must die,
They placed the rose in the sunny light,
Where Greg might watch it, from morn till night,
And the green buds grew, from day to day,
As the sick man faded fast away.

"The lines which sin and pain had traced,
Seemed by the shadowing plant effaced,
Till, came at last, the joyful hour,
When they knew that the bud must burst its flower.
Greg slept, but still one hand caressed
The plant; the other his pale cheek pressed.
The perfumed