an watching them so sharply, to see
that they didn't speak to each other; and some of them very young, too.
Oh, it was very sad. I almost felt afraid to look at them, for fear it
would hurt their feelings, and I longed to tell them that my heart was
full of pity, and not to get discouraged, and not to despair.

Such little, close cells as they sleep in at night,--it almost stifled
me to think of it,--and so dismal and cheerless, too, with an iron door
to bolt them in. On Sunday they stay in their cells nearly all day, and
some of the cells are so dark that they cannot see even to read the
Bible allowed them: and there they lie, thinking over, and over, and
over, their own sad thoughts. So you can't wonder that they dread
Sunday very much, and are very glad to be put to hard work again on
Monday, to get rid of thinking.

Then we saw them march into dinner--just like soldiers, in single file,
with a guard close beside them, that they should not run away. I
suppose they were very glad to eat what was laid on those wooden
plates, but you or I would have gone hungry a long while first. In
fact, I think, Harry, that PRISON _food_ would choke me any how, though
it were roast turkey or plum pudding. I'm quite sure my _gypsey_ throat
would refuse to swallow it.

Then we went into the Hospital for the sick prisoners. It is hard to be
sick in one's own home, even, with kind friends around; but to be sick
in a _prison_!--to lie on such a narrow bed that you cannot toss
about,--to bear, (beside your own pain and misery,) the moanings of
your sick companions,--to see through the grated windows the bright,
blue sky, the far off hills, and the silver streams threading the green
meadows,--to be shut in from the fresh breeze, that would bring you
life and health,--to pine and waste away, and think to die, without one
dear hand to press yours lovingly--_oh, Harry_!

One of the sick prisoners had a little squirrel. The squirrel was a
prisoner, too. He was in a cage--but then sometimes he was let out; and
to please me, the door was opened for him. _Didn't_ he jump? poor
squirrel! He had no soul--so he wasn't as miserable as his sick keeper;
but I'm mistaken if he wouldn't have liked a nut to crack, of _his own
finding_ in some leafy wood, where the green moss lies thickly
cushioned, and the old trees serve him for ladders!

On a bench in the Hospital was seated a poor, sick black-boy.
"Pompey's" mother was a very foolish mother. She ha