When the prison band was first organized the inmate musicians made a noise
that was something indescribable. It sounded like a sawmill blowing up, or
a handsaw striking a 60‐penny spike. One day one of the highly‐strung
nervous chaps went up to the deputy warden and asked permission to buy a
bale of hay.
“What do you want hay for?” asked the deputy.
“Why,” replied the prisoner, “I would like to present a bale of hay to
those jackasses in the park who are making all that confounded noise.”