and write while prisons & i aint got well enough along to write as i would talk; i no i aint spelled all the words rite in this & lots of other mistakes but you will excuse it i no, for you no i was brought up in a poor house until i run away, & that i never new who my father and mother was & i dont no my right name, & i hope you wont be mad at me, but i have as much rite to one name as another & i have taken your name, for you wont use it when you get out i no, & you are the man i think most of in the world; so i hope you wont be mad—­I am doing well, i put $10 a month in bank with $25 of the $50—­ if you ever want any or all of it let me know, & it is yours. i wish you would let me send you some now.  I send you with this a receipt for a year of Littles Living Age, i didn’t know what you would like & i told Mr. Brown & he said he thought you would like it—­i wish i was nere you so i could send you chuck (refreshments) on holidays; it would spoil this weather from here, but i will send you a box next thanksgiving any way—­next week Mr. Brown takes me into his store as lite porter & will advance me as soon as i know a little more—­he keeps a big granary store, wholesale—­i forgot to tell you of my mission school, sunday school class—­the school is in the sunday afternoon, i went out two sunday afternoons, and picked up seven kids (little boys) & got them to come in. two of them new as much as i did & i had them put in a class where they could learn something. i dont no much myself, but as these kids cant read i get on nicely with them. i make sure of them by going after them every Sunday hour before school time, I also got 4 girls to come. tell Mack and Harry about me, if they will come out here when their time is up i will get them jobs at once. i hope you will excuse this long letter & all mistakes, i wish i could see you for i cant write as i would talk—­i hope the warm weather is doing your lungs good—­i was afraid when you was bleeding you would die—­give my respects to all the boys and tell them how i am doing—­i am doing well and every one here treats me as kind as they can—­Mr. Brown is going to write to you sometime—­i hope some day you will write to me, this letter is from your very true friend

C——­ W——­

who you know as Jack Hunt.

I send you Mr. Brown’s card.  Send my letter to him.

Here was true eloquence; irresistible eloquence; and without a single grace or ornament to help it out.  I have seldom been so deeply stirred by any piece of writing.  The reader of it halted, all the way through, on a lame and broken voice; yet he had tried to fortify his feelings by several private readings of the letter before venturing into company with it.  He was practising upon me to see if there was any hope of his being able to read the document to his prayer-meeting with anything like a decent command over his feelings.  The result was not promising.  However, he determined to risk it; and did.  He got through tolerably well; but his audience broke down early, and stayed in that condition to the end.