can't help it, I chase a chicken through the front so as to know how it
feels to run in the grass, which it is forbidden to do.

Forbidden things are so much nicer than unforbidden. I love to do them
until they're done.

The Asylum is on King Street, almost at the very end, and there isn't
much passing, just the Tates and the Gordons and a few others living
farther on. The dining-room is in the basement, half below the ground,
and on cloudy days the lamps have to be lighted--that is, they used to.
Now we have electric lights, and I just love to turn them on. It's such
a grand way to get a thing done, just to press a button.

The dining-room has a picture over the mantel of a cow standing in
yellow-brown grass, and, though hideous, it's a great comfort. That cow
understands our feelings at mealtimes, and we understand hers.

Humane meals are very much like yellow-brown grass, and our clothes are
on the same order as our meals. As for our days, if it wasn't for
calendars we wouldn't know one from the other, except Sundays, for,
unlike the stars mentioned by St. Paul, they differ not.

The rising-bell rings at five o'clock, and all except the very littlest
get up and clean up until seven, when we march into the dining-room. At
7.25 we rise at the tap of Miss Bray's bell, and those who have more
cleaning up-stairs march out; those who clear the table and wash the
dishes stay behind. At 8.30 we march into the school-room, where we
have prayers and calisthenics. The calisthenics are fine. At nine we
begin recitations.