You have read in recent months about the mutinies at Sing Sing in New York State; how the prisoners have been for almost a century forced into atrociously small cells, with insufficient light and air. You have read how prisoners have been doubled-up, two in a cell, because of the congestion of population. You have learned that prisoners have had to stay in their cells some fourteen hours out of the twenty-four; that these cells are carriers of tuberculosis and venereal disease. And many other terrible things you have read. In the light of that story, hear this tale of a prison farm. When I alighted from an earlier train I looked for Warden Gilmour in vain. In the road stood a man in civilian’s clothes. “I’m Sergeant Grant,” said he, “and the warden was to come on this train. He’ll come later, though, with the draft.” We walked toward the prison. On the way we crossed an attractive concrete bridge. “All built by prisoners,” said the sergeant, “and we had hard work to find the bottom for some of the piers. We made this macadam road, also graded up the approaches to the bridge, designed the balustrades, and even hydrated the lime that went into the concrete, after having quarried it from the limestone quarries up there.” Approaching the prison I looked for the wall and found none. Not a thing apparently, to prevent the men from running away. I asked the sergeant how many escapes they had. “About one and a half per cent. of the population. We’ve lost from three to five this year. Fact is there’s nothing in the way of guns to prevent the men from breaking away any time. There isn’t a guard here that carries a revolver. The warden says: ‘We haven’t taken away the guns from the guards, because we haven’t ever given them guns!’ As a matter of fact, I carry a revolver,” said the sergeant, “but I’ve never used it in eighteen years. But I feel more comfortable with it.” Which made me smile, because it was an example of an age-long tradition dying hard. The dinner whistle blew at 11:45. Here I saw what in the old-line prison would be the unbelievable. From all parts of the farm came the men in to dinner. It was the reverse of the usual factory procession. Here the crowd poured into the door of a factory building temporarily used as a dining-room and kitchen. There was absolute order. The garb was not unlike that of the average farmer’s helper. Even the customary vizored cap of many prisons was absent, and the old straw hat had taken its place. On the tables, for dinner, were meat and vegetables, tapioca, soup and milk--a liberal amount.