Her prison life was long and lone
Her kindred buried or unknown;
Of naught had she kept any score,
In truth her mind deprived of lore,
But knew her grief to be her own.
Another heart had better grown,
Confessing murder had he sown;
“I did the deed, and I deplore
Her prison life.”
But hope and heart and health had flown;
Why cares she now what winds are blown?
“I guess I’ll stay here as before,
My all is gone and evermore”—
Her living death, one long-drawn moan,
Her prison life.
[12] Based on a newspaper story of “Aunt” Sarah Wycoff in the North
Carolina Penitentiary.
[Illustration: Photograph of a rare old painting by the Spanish artist,
Herrera, and owned by Dr. Andrew Anderson of St. Augustine, Fla.]