As　I　sit　here　and　muse　on　it　all；　the　footfalls　of　the　death…watch
  going　up　and　down　outside　my　cage；　the　man's　suspicious　eyes　ever
  peering　in　on　me；　almost　I　weary　of　eternal　recurrence。　　I　have
  lived　so　many　lives。　　I　weary　of　the　endless　struggle　and　pain　and
  catastrophe　that　come　to　those　who　sit　in　the　high　places；　tread　the
  shining　ways；　and　wander　among　the　stars。
  Almost　I　hope；　when　next　I　reinhabit　form；　that　it　shall　be　that　of
  a　peaceful　farmer。　　There　is　my　dream…farm。　　I　should　like　to　engage
  just　for　one　whole　life　in　that。　　Oh；　my　dream…farm！　　My　alfalfa
  meadows；　my　efficient　Jersey　cattle；　my　upland　pastures；　my　brush…
  covered　slopes　melting　into　tilled　fields；　while　ever　higher　up　the
  slopes　my　angora　goats　eat　away　brush　to　tillage！
  There　is　a　basin　there；　a　natural　basin　high　up　the　slopes；　with　a
  generous　watershed　on　three　sides。　　I　should　like　to　throw　a　dam
  across　the　fourth　side；　which　is　surprisingly　narrow。　　At　a　paltry
  price　of　labour　I　could　impound　twenty　million　gallons　of　water。
  For；　see：　　one　great　drawback　to　farming　in　California　is　our　long
  dry　summer。　　This　prevents　the　growing　of　cover　crops；　and　the
  sensitive　soil；　naked；　a　mere　surface　dust…mulch；　has　its　humus
  burned　out　of　it　by　the　sun。　　Now　with　that　dam　I　could　grow　three
  crops　a　year；　observing　due　rotation；　and　be　able　to　turn　under　a
  wealth　of　green　manure。　。　。　。
  I　have　just　endured　a　visit　from　the　Warden。　　I　say　〃endured〃
  advisedly。　　He　is　quite　different　from　the　Warden　of　San　Quentin。
  He　was　very　nervous；　and　perforce　I　had　to　entertain　him。　　This　is
  his　first　hanging。　　He　told　me　so。　　And　I；　with　a　clumsy　attempt　at
  wit；　did　not　reassure　him　when　I　explained　that　it　was　also　my　first
  hanging。　　He　was　unable　to　laugh。　　He　has　a　girl　in　high　school；　and
  his　boy　is　a　freshman　at　Stanford。　　He　has　no　income　outside　his
  salary；　his　wife　is　an　invalid；　and　he　is　worried　in　that　he　has
  been　rejected　by　the　life　insurance　doctors　as　an　undesirable　risk。
  Really；　the　man　told　me　almost　all　his　troubles。　　Had　I　not
  diplomatically　terminated　the　interview　he　would　still　be　here
  telling　me　the　remainder　of　them。
  My　last　two　years　in　San　Quentin　were　very　gloomy　and　depressing。
  Ed　Morrell；　by　one　of　the　wildest　freaks　of　chance；　was　taken　out　of
  solitary　and　made　head　trusty　of　the　whole　prison。　　This　was　Al
  Hutchins'　old　job；　and　it　carried　a　graft　of　three　thousand　dollars
  a　year。　　To　my　misfortune；　Jake　Oppenheimer；　who　had　rotted　in
  solitary　for　so　many　years；　turned　sour　on　the　world；　on　everything。
  For　eight　months　he　refused　to　talk　even　to　me。
  In　prison；　news　will　travel。　　Give　it　time　and　it　will　reach　dungeon
  and　solitary　cell。　　It　reached　me；　at　last；　that　Cecil　Winwood；　the
  poet…forger；　the　snitcher；　the　coward；　and　the　stool；　was　returned
  for　a　fresh　forgery。　　It　will　be　remembered　that　it　was　this　Cecil
  Winwood　who　concocted　the　fairy　story　that　I　had　changed　the　plant
  of　the　non…existent　dynamite　and　who　was　responsible　for　the　five
  years　I　had　then　spent　in　solitary。
  I　decided　to　kill　Cecil　Winwood。　　You　see；　Morrell　was　gone；　and
  Oppenheimer；　until　the　outbreak　that　finished　him；　had　remained　in
  the　silence。　　Solitary　had　grown　monotonous　for　me。　　I　had　to　do
  something。　　So　I　remembered　back　to　the　time　when　I　was　Adam　Strang
  and　patiently　nursed　revenge　for　forty　years。　　What　he　had　done　I
  could　do　if　once　I　locked　my　hands　on　Cecil　Winwood's　throat。
  It　cannot　be　expected　of　me　to　divulge　how　I　came　into　possession　of
  the　four　needles。　　They　were　small　cambric　needles。　　Emaciated　as　my
  body　was；　I　had　to　saw　four　bars；　each　in　two　places；　in　order　to
  make　an　aperture　through　which　I　could　squirm。　　I　did　it。　　I　used　up
  one　needle　to　each　bar。　　This　meant　two　cuts　to　a　bar；　and　it　took　a
  month　to　a　cut。　　Thus　I　should　have　been　eight　months　in　cutting　my
  way　out。　　Unfortunately；　I　broke　my　last　needle　on　the　last　bar；　and
  I　had　to　wait　three　months　before　I　could　get　another　needle。　　But　I
  got　it；　and　I　got　out。
  I　regret　greatly　that　I　did　not　get　Cecil　Winwood。　　I　had　calculated
  well　on　everything　save　one　thing。　　The　certain　chance　to　find
  Winwood　would　be　in　the　dining…room　at　dinner　hour。　　So　I　waited
  until　Pie…Face　Jones；　the　sleepy　guard；　should　be　on　shift　at　the
  noon　hour。　　At　that　time　I　was　the　only　inmate　of　solitary；　so　that
  Pie…Face　Jones　was　quickly　snoring。　　I　removed　my　bars；　squeezed
  out；　stole　past　him　along　the　ward；　opened　the　door　and　was　free　。　。
  。　to　a　portion　of　the　inside　of　the　prison。
  And　here　was　the　one　thing　I　had　not　calculated　onmyself。　　I　had
  been　five　years　in　solitary。　　I　was　hideously　weak。　　I　weighed
  eighty…seven　pounds。　　I　was　half　blind。　　And　I　was　immediately
  stricken　with　agoraphobia。　　I　was　affrighted　by　spaciousness。　　Five
  years　in　narrow　walls　had　unfitted　me　for　the　enormous　declivity　of
  the　stairway；　for　the　vastitude　of　the　prison　yard。
  The　descent　of　that　stairway　I　consider　the　most　heroic　exploit　I
  ever　accomplished。　　The　yard　was　deserted。　　The　blinding　sun　blazed
  down　on　it。　　Thrice　I　essayed　to　cross　it。　　But　my　senses　reeled　and
  I　shrank　back　to　the　wall　for　protection。　　Again；　summoning　all　my
  courage；　I　attempted　it。　　But　my　poor　blear　eyes；　like　a　bat's；
  startled　me　at　my　shadow　on　the　flagstones。　　I　attempted　to　avoid　my
  own　shadow；　tripped；　fell　over　it；　and　like　a　drowning　man
  struggling　for　shore　crawled　back　on　hands　and　knees　to　the　wall。
  I　leaned　against　the　wall　and　cried。　　It　was　the　first　time　in　many
  years　that　I　had　cried。　　I　remember　noting；　even　in　my　extremity；
  the　warmth　of　the　tears　on　my　cheeks　and　the　salt　taste　when　they
  reached　my　lips。　　Then　I　had　a　chill；　and　for　a　time　shook　as　with
  an　ague。　　Abandoning　the　openness　of　the　yard　as　too　impossible　a
  feat　for　one　in　my　condition；　still　shaking　with　the　chill；
  crouching　close　to　the　protecting　wall；　my　hands　touching　it；　I
  started　to　skirt　the　yard。
  Then　it　was；　somewhere　along；　that　the　guard　Thurston　espied　me。　　I
  saw　him；　distorted　by　my　bleared　eyes；　a　huge；　well…fed　monster；
  rushing　upon　me　with　incredible　speed　out　of　the　remote　distance。
  Possibly；　at　that　moment；　he　was　twenty　feet　away。　　He　weighed　one
  hundred　and　seventy　pounds。　　The　struggle　between　us　can　be　easily
  imagined；　but　somewhere　in　that　brief　struggle　it　was　claimed　that　I
  struck　him　on　the　nose　with　my　fist　to　such　purpose　as　to　make　that
  organ　bleed。
  At　any　rate；　being　a　lifer；　and　the　penalty　in　California　for
  battery　by　a　lifer　being　death；　I　was　so　found　guilty　by　a　jury
  which　could　not　ignore　the　asseverations　of　the　guard　Thurston　and
  the　rest　of　the　prison　hangdogs　that　testified；　and　I　was　so
  sentenced　by　a　judge　who　could　not　ignore　the　law　as　spread　plainly
  on　the　statute　book。
  I　was　well　pummelled　by　Thurston；　and　all　the　way　back　up　that
  prodigious　stairway　I　was　roundly　kicked；　punched；　and　cuffed　by　the
  horde　of　trusties　and　guards　who　got　in　one　another's　way　in　their
  zeal　to　assist　him。　　Heavens；　if　his　nose　did　bleed；　the　probability
  is　that　some　of　his　own　kind　were　guilty　of　causing　it　in　the
  confusion　of　the　scuffle。　　I　shouldn't　care　if　I　were　responsible
  for　it　myself；　save　that　it　is　so　pitiful　a　thing　for　which　to　hang
  a　man。　。　。　。
  I　have　just　had　a　talk　with　the　man　on　shift　of　my　death…watch。　　A
  little　less　than　a　year　ago；　Jake　Oppenheimer　occupied　this　same
  death…cell　on　the　road　to　the　gallows　which　I　will　tread　to…morrow。
  This　man　was　one　of　the　death…watch　on　Jake。　　He　is　an　old　soldier。
  He　chews　tobacco　constantly；　and　untidily；　for　his　gray　beard　and
  moustache　are　stained　yellow。　　He　is　a　widower；　with　fourteen　living
  children；　all　married；　and　is　the　grandfather　of　thirty…one　living
  grandchildren；　and　the　great…grandfather　of　four　younglings；　all
  girls。　　It　was　like　pulling　teeth　to　extract　such　information。　　He
  is　a　queer　old　codger；　of　a　low　order　of　intelligence。　　That　is　why；
  I　fancy；　he　has　lived　so　long　and　fathered　so　numerous　a　progeny。
  His　mind　must　have　crystallized　thirty　years　ago。　　His　ideas　are
  none　of　them　later　than　that　vintage。　　He　rarely　says　more　than　yes
  and　no　to　me。　　It　is　not　because　he　is　surly。　　He　has　no　ideas　to
  utter。　　I　don't　know；　when　I　live　again；　but　what　one　incarnation
  such　as　his　would　be　a　nice　vegetative　existence　in　which　to　rest　up
  ere　I　go　star…roving　again。　。　。　。
  But　to　go　back。　　I　must　take　a　line　in　which　to　tell；　after　I　was
  hustled　and　bustled；　kicked　and　punched；　up　that　terrible　stairway
  by　Thurston　and　the　rest　of　the　prison…dogs；　of　the　infinite　relief
  of　my　narrow　cell　when　I　found　myself　back　in　solitary。　　It　was　all
  so　safe；　so　secure。　　I　felt　like　a　lost　child　returned　home　again。
  I　loved　those　very　walls　that　I　had　so　hated　for　five　years。　　All
  that　kept　the　vastness　of　space；　like　a　monster；　from　pouncing　upon
  me　were　those　good　stout　walls　of　mine；　close　to　hand