Six prisoners brought into our room to-day. Thirty-seven now in the room, with bunks for twenty-one; the balance sleep on the floor as best they can. At night the floor is completely taken up by sleeping men, so we can only walk the floor by stepping over them. They roll themselves in their blankets and go to sleep.
Frank Thornton released on parole to-day. John Pentz went out at night.
A man in Room 15 threw a piece of bread out of the window into the street. In consequence of this, all the inmates of the room, twenty-eight in number, were confined to the room during the half-hour usually allowed for recreation, and put on bread and water diet—two pieces of bread being allowed them daily.
Monday, March 2.—Commission in session to-day.
The surgeon came in and made inquiries as to the number in our room, etc. Thirty-nine in room—beds for twenty-one. Call for all who desire to be vaccinated to come into the hospital.
In the dull uniformity of prison life every trifling event which breaks the monotony and diverts the attention, for the time, from the unpleasant reality of our situation is seized upon and becomes a subject of conversation. To-day a drove of mules was passing the prison on their way to some of the camps or corrals, and this brought out a number of stories illustrating peculiar traits or features of that useful and much-abused creature—the mule.
“When the Confederate army was encamped at Manassas,” said Bennett, “after the battle of Bull Run, the mules, being fastened to the wagons by their halters, after eating their supply of provender, would start in, biting and chewing the feed-boxes and wagon bodies. They were not satisfied with the quantity of long-feed that was dealt out to them and sought to make good the deficiency by chewing up the wagons. To prevent the total demolition of wagons, details of men were sent out daily to cut and bring in loads of hoop-poles for belly-timber, as Bennett termed it. These were spread out before the mules who no doubt found the wood in its crude state as appetizing as when fashioned into wagons or feed-boxes.”
“An old friend of mine, Dr. Green,” said John Carr, “was at one time induced to purchase a lot of mules. They were sold at a sacrifice, and knowing there was a constant demand for mules in army circles, he flattered himself that he had been cut out for a sharp trader, but had always before that time missed his opportunity; that he had made a good investment, and now having the long-delayed opportunity, he would surely get all there was in it. So when he had paid his money he patted himself on the back—figuratively—in a patronizing manner and turned a round dozen well-conditioned mules into his pasture.
“In this field where he had put the mules his riding-horse was accustomed to graze. A close intimacy sprang up between the mules and the horse. On Sunday, when Dr. Green brought up his horse in order to attend service at the village church, he noticed a commotion among the mules, but paid no further attention to them.
“While riding to church with his wife, however, he heard a noise on the road behind them, a tramping of hoofs, with a nickering and braying. Soon the mules came in sight, frisking about and apparently delighted to overtake their newly-found friend and comrade, the horse. They refused to be sent back, and the Doctor and his wife rode into town to church at the head of a drove of mules.”