I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. . . Nothing that I desire to remember," replied Sheppard, sternly. Jack had no sooner taken his place in the cart, than he was followed by the ordinary, who seated himself beside him, and, opening the book of prayer, began to read aloud. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. Jack turned away with an aching heart.
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