Writing Behind Bars

Just before dawn the pharmacist in the hospital of the Federal penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio, finished the short story he had been working on most of the night. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, leaned back in his chair, and pushed up the green celluloid eyeshade which protected him from the glare of the gas lamp that spluttered over his desk. Then he picked up his pen again and wrote the title of the story at the top of the first page: Whistling Dick's Christmas Stocking. Under it he signed his name with a flourish: “O. Henry”.