yes, the day comes. I've always been a middling writer,
tho' I can't say much for the grammar, and spelling, and that,
but I'll put it all down, from the beginning to the end,
and maybe it'll save some other unfortunate young chap
from pulling back like a colt when he's first roped, setting himself against
everything in the way of proper breaking, making a fool of himself generally,
and choking himself down, as I've done.

The gaoler -- he looks hard -- he has to do that, there's more than one or two
within here that would have him by the throat, with his heart's blood running,
in half a minute, if they had their way, and the warder was off guard.
He knows that very well. But he's not a bad-hearted chap.

`You can have books, or paper and pens, anything you like,' he said,
`you unfortunate young beggar, until you're turned off.'

`If I'd only had you to see after me when I was young,' says I ----

`Come; don't whine,' he said, then he burst out laughing.
`You didn't mean it, I see. I ought to have known better.
You're not one of that sort, and I like you all the better for it.'

. . . . .

Well, here goes. Lots of pens, a big bottle of ink, and ever so much
foolscap paper, the right sort for me, or I shouldn't have been here.
I'm blessed if it doesn't look as if I was going to write copies again.
Don't I remember how I used to go to school in old times;
the rides there and back on the old pony; and pretty little Grace Storefield
that I was so fond of, and used to show her how to do her lessons.