ay noon, October 4.

This morning,--the morning of my last full day in prison,--dawns bright
and sunny; a pleasant change from the dark, cloudy and oppressive weather
we have been having. The routine of my day has become firmly established
now; and I conform to it almost without thought. At six I arise. As I
sleep in my one suit of underclothes, my dressing may be said to have
already begun. I add my socks and the clumsy state shoes, which are on the
chair close at hand. Then I am ready to stand upon the stone pavement of
the cell. After this I gain space, and at the same time put my house in
order, by hanging up mattress, pillow and blankets, and turning the iron
bed up under them against the wall. Then I brush my teeth, wash my face
and comb my hair. Then I finish dressing by putting on shirt, trousers,
coat and cap. These and other necessary operations completed, I am ready
for the day.

In the midst of my toilet the electric light is switched on; so that the
latter part has been accomplished with its aid. As I have dressed
leisurely there is not very long to wait before I hear the clicking, which
marks the unlocking of the levers, far around the corner to my left.
Already, however, I have heard the tread of shuffling feet in the corridor
below; and know that the first company has already started down the yard.

All the familiar sounds,--the familiar routine,--seem to give me a sort of
strange, new feeling on this last day. It seems so curious that something
which now seems like the established order of the universe should ever
have been unfamiliar, or that it should so soon come to an end--at least,
so far as I am concerned.

The levers click; the captain unlocks the cells; the long bar is raised;
the doors are opened; the galleries are filled with hurrying figures
carrying the heavy iron buckets; and my company forms at the foot of the
stairs.

What special reason there is for so much haste I have not yet discovered;
but I presume that the officers put off their arrival at the prison to the
very last moment, allowing the shortest possible time for the operations
between their arrival and breakfast.

The air and sunshine are pleasant and invigorating as we march down the
yard and back, emptying and leaving the buckets as usual. Then to my cell
where I sweep out and shut myself in.

Soon comes breakfast with its regular routine. I have laid off my cap; as
the lever is pressed down I push open the grated door,