A Birching Story

One morning, just after breakfast, I was in the hail, fixing on one of the panels a number of Eastern weapons; when a young girl came in, bringing me a note from one of my neighbours, who had left it at the lodge with orders that it should be taken to me at once. The girl, named Anna Lee, was sixteen years old; she was a friendless waif who had been left in the village by a band of gypsies, five or six years previously; and she would have been sent to the workhouse, had it not been for the charity of my lodge-keeper, Mrs. Grove, who took the deserted child into her cottage, and had kept her ever since. The note required an answer; so, telling the girl to wait in the hail, I went up to the library to write a reply. I hastily scribbled a few lines, and then I went back to the hail, gave the note to Anna, and told her to take it to its destination without delay. She went away, and I finished arranging the trophy of arms; then I went to the little table on which I had placed my watch before beginning my work. I looked about carefully, but the watch was not to be found.
It was a massive, old-fashioned, gold lever, which had belonged to my father, consequently I valued it very highly.
As no one had been in the hall but Anna Lee, I felt quite certain that she had stolen the watch. I was very angry, and at once made up my mind to go after the girl, hoping to be able to catch her before she had time to hide her booty; so without saying anything to my servants, I started off. Hurrying down the avenue, I passed through the lodge-gates out on to the road, and looked up and down it, but the girl was nowhere in sight; so I thought I had better go back to the lodge and speak to Mrs. Grove.
She received me with great respect and ceremony, ushered me into her neat little sitting-room, and made me sit in the best chair, while she stood before me, waiting to hear what I had to say.
Mrs. Grove was about forty-five years of age; a good looking buxom woman, whose husband had been lodge keeper; and on his death I had allowed her to remain in charge of the lodge, as she was quite capable of performing all the duties of lodge keeper, with the assistance of her grown-up daughter.
Mrs. Grove had been born and brought up on the estate, so she was devoted to me, and to everything connected with Oakhurst.
I told her what had happened, and asked her to keep an eye on Anna's proceedings, and if possible, find out what she had done with the watch.
The worthy woman was quite concerned on hearing of my loss, and she was furious with Anna, who was, she said, a naughty, troublesome girl in every way. Then, she went on: "Anna may not have hidden the watch anywhere as yet; perhaps she has got it on her person; so when she comes back I will search her, and if I do find the watch, I will give her the soundest birching she has ever had in her life - and she has had many a one from me."
I smiled at the emphatic way she spoke, thinking to myself that if the watch was found on Anna, she would get her bottom well warmed.
Mrs. Grove continued: "If you have time, sir, I should like you to wait and see what happens, and if I have to birch the girl, I should very much like you to be present. I think it would be a bit of satisfaction to you to see her well whipped for all the bother she has given you."
I was rather surprised at Mrs. Grove offering to let me see her birch the girl, but I was delighted with the offer; for since I had become a "lover of the rod," I had often had a wish to see a girl birched, and now there was a chance of my wish being gratified. It would be deliciously exciting to watch a bottom, that I had never seen before, reddening under the strokes of a birch-rod wielded by a buxom woman. My cock began to stiffen at the thought!
I said that I would wait and see the affair out, whatever happened; then I added: "I have no doubt that Anna is the thief, but if she has not got the watch in her possession when she comes back, we can do nothing. We cannot birch her without proof that she has stolen the watch."
"No, sir, I suppose not," said Mrs. Grove in a tone of regret.
She had hardly finished speaking, when we heard the outer door opened, and then closed, as the girl entered the cottage. Mrs. Grove called her, and she came into the little parlour, jauntily, but when she saw me, she started and looked rather uneasy for a moment; then she informed me that she had delivered the letter.
Anna Lee, as I have before said, was a little over fifteen years of age, a well-grown sturdy wench, not bad looking, but her face had a saucy expression; she had a dark, olive complexion; black hair; and bold, black eyes; very white teeth and red lips. She was supposed to have gypsy blood in her, and she certainly looked as if she had. She was neatly dressed in a cotton frock, with a white apron, and on her head she wore a linen sunbonnet with scarlet ribbons.
Altogether she was a nice morsel for the birch. She took off her bonnet, and was about to quit the room, when she was stopped by Mrs. Grove; who did not waste words, but at once came to the point. She said: "You were up at the house a short time ago. The master's watch was stolen out of the hall. I believe you stole it. I am going to search you."
So saying, she caught hold of Anna, who was so taken aback that she never even denied the charge, but stood perfectly still during the whole time she was being searched. Mrs. Grove first felt in the girl's pocket; then she passed her hand down the girl's arms to see if the watch was hidden in her sleeves; then unfastening the front of her dress, she thrust her hand down her bosom, but she did not find the object of her search. So I began to think that Anna had not got the watch on her person, and consequently that I should not have the pleasure of seeing her bottom whipped.
But Mrs. Grove had not finished her search; and much to my surprise, she put both her hands up under the girl's clothes, and after a little groping, cried out in a tone of triumph, "I've got it, sir!" at the same time producing the watch, which Anna had managed to stow away in some of the mysterious recesses of her underclothing.
The culprit, thus caught almost red-handed, did not say a word. She turned a little pale, a sullen expression came to her face, and she stood twisting the hem of her apron between her fingers.
"Now, you hussy!" said Mrs. Grove, "you shall catch it! I'll make your bottom smart, you horrid young thief."
Then, going to the door, she called out to her daughter: "Come here, Fanny, and bring the rod with you."
The girl's black eyes flashed, and she darted a look of hatred at Mrs. Grove, saying, sullenly: "It is not right that I should be flogged before a gentleman."
"Hold your tongue, you bad girl! You ought to be publicly flogged in the middle of the village!" said Mrs. Grove angrily.
At that moment, Fanny came into the room, carrying in her hand a formidable looking birch-rod, which she placed on the table. This rod was much longer, and bigger in every way than the one I had used on "Frank."
Fanny was about twenty three years old; a tall, strapping, broad-shouldered country lass, as strong, as an average man.
Her mother briefly told her what Anna had done; adding: "I am going to flog her soundly. Take her up, and mind you hold her fast."
Fanny glanced at me, blushing a little, but said quietly: "All right, mother; I'll hold her tight. This will not be the first time I have hoisted her for you." She seized Anna's wrists, turned half round, and swung the big girl easily up on her broad back; then slightly separating her feet, and bending well forward, she brought the culprit's body into a curved position, with her bottom well thrown out, at a most convenient angle for receiving the punishment.
Mrs. Grove stepped forward, and rolled the girl's skirt up to her shoulders, doing the same with her petticoats arid chemise, which, though coarse, were clean; then she carefully pinned up all the garments in such a way that they could not fall down while the culprit was being birched.
As Anna wore no drawers, she was now naked from her waist to the tops of her stockings. For her age, she was remarkably well developed; her bottom was broad and fleshy - there was plenty of room for the birch to play on - her thighs were large, and she had rather thick legs, which were encased in white cotton stockings, gartered above her knees with black ribbons. Her skin, clean, and wholesome looking, was of an olive tint, rather coarse in texture, but quite smooth; and I at once noticed that both of her round, plump buttocks were marked with faint, pink lines, evidently the traces of a flogging which had been inflicted not many days previously. Mrs. Grove rolled up her sleeve, displaying a muscular arm; then, taking up the rod, she lightly touched the girl's bottom with the end of the twigs, pointing out the pink marks on her skin, saying: "There, sir. Those are the marks left by a birching I gave the wicked girl, only three days ago, for being saucy to me." A slight shudder passed over the culprit, as she felt the birch touching her bare flesh, but she did not utter a word.
"How many strokes shall I give her, sir?" asked Mrs. Grove, as she drew the rod through the fingers of her left hand, so as to separate the bristly twigs.
My eyes were fixed on the girl's fat bottom. I was greatly excited, and I had a stiff prick, so that it was as much as I could do to preserve a calm, judicial demeanour while I replied to the question.
"I think that eighteen strokes will be sufficient, if you lay them on well."
Mrs. Grove smiled, saying: "Never fear, sir. I will lay them on in a way that will astonish her. She is going to get a birching such as she has never had in her life before."
Anna moved uneasily on her "horse's" back!
Raising the rod high in the air, the woman laid on the first cut with considerable force. Anna's plump flesh quivered involuntarily, and long purplish streaks at once showed on her olive skin: she gave a convulsive start, contracted the cheeks of her bottom, threw back her head with a jerk, and drew her breath through her teeth sharply, with a hissing sound. Again and again, the stinging rod swept through the air, falling with a loud-sounding "swish" on the culprit's writhing bottom; the sharp pain seemed to take her breath away; she gasped, and made a gurgling noise in her throat; clenching her teeth so tightly that I could see the outline of her jaws through her cheeks, while the tears streamed from her eyes, but she did not scream.
Swish! Swish! Swish! She could no longer suppress her cries, and a long, shrill shriek followed each slashing cut as it scored her red buttocks.
Swish! Swish! Swish! Mrs. Grove birched slowly, pausing between each cut, so that the culprit felt the full sting of the stroke, before the next one was applied. She roared, and begged for mercy; and she struggled and plunged so violently, that Fanny, strong as she was, staggered once or twice. Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish! Her bottom was rough with weals, scarlet in colour, and speckled with livid dots.
Screaming loudly, and entreating to be let off, she drew up her legs, and kicked them about in all directions, and arching her loins, she twisted her body from side to side, so that I occasionally caught sight of her small cunt, which was just beginning to be fledged with curly, black hair; and I noticed that the little, pink lips were gaping slightly, as if mutely sympathising with the smarting bottom.
Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish! The rod rose and fell, slowly and relentlessly; the girl's shrieks became piercing. She struggled hard, kicking vigorously, and a few small drops of blood appeared on each cheek of her crimson bottom.
Swish! The last cut fell on the quivering flesh of the shrieking girl: and Mrs. Grove, putting down the rod, wiped her hot face with her apron. Then she unpinned the girl's clothes, letting them fall down over her scarified bottom; which had looked very much like a great plum pudding.
Fanny let go the victim's wrists, and she stood on the floor, crying, twisting herself about, and actually dancing with the smarting pain of her well-birched bottom. Mrs. Grove smiled grimly, saying: "There, Anna, I don't think you will steal anything the next time you are sent to the house on a message. Go away."
The sobbing girl, with pain-drawn, scarlet face, trembling lips, and cheeks furrowed by tears, limped stiffly out of the room, with her hands pressed to her sore bottom.
I glanced at Fanny, noticing that she was smiling, and that her eyes were sparkling; but when she saw me looking at her, she became grave, and blushed; then taking up the rod, she hastily left the room.
Mrs. Grove turned to me, saying: "Well, sir, I hope you are satisfied with the flogging I gave Anna. She will remember it for some time. She won't be able to sit down comfortably for days."
I was now more excited than ever, and I had some difficulty in preventing myself showing my feelings, but I told Mrs. Grove, as calmly as possible, that I was perfectly satisfied, and also much obliged to her for the trouble she had taken. Then I left the lodge, filled with an intense desire; for, strange to say, I had been more inflamed by the sight of the whipping I had just seen inflicted, than I ever had been when whipping "Frank." The punishment had been so severe; the agonised contortions of the girl's naked body had seemed to me voluptuous: the quivering of her flesh; and the appearance of her blood-spotted bottom; the occasional glimpses of her little gaping cunt. All these things had set my blood on fire; my cock felt as if it would burst, and my balls ached. I hurried back to the house, went up to my bedroom, shut myself in, without taking notice of anything, and threw myself into an easy-chair; my tool still in full erection.

Beauty Caned

The Birching of Girls

Birching Story

Our story begins in the year of who knows when, with Britain at war.
In the midst of the turmoil, naïve, impetuous young Celestine is lured
by her ludicrously wealthy paramour, the disgustingly handsome Lord
Tarquin, to an afternoon's entertainment amongst the vagabond inmates
and low-life scum housed at the municipal bridewell. Evidently our
skallywag heroine has been a bit loose with her morals and needs to
see for herself where that sort of thing can lead.
The luckless prisoner - a lady of some twenty-five summers;
tempestuous, red-haired and petulantly attractive - is reputed to be
the wayward spouse of a certain well-regarded young officer. We learn
how the saucy young trollop has been caught in flagrante delicto with
a stable-hand and given over, on the orders of her incensed husband,
for correction by the stern Justices. The woman is brought out to face
the accusing stares and loud angry jeers of the vengeful townsfolk.
The court finds her guilty and her fate has been sealed. She blinks
and rubs her eyes, half-blinded by the dazzle of the afternoon sun.
She is shivering. Her cell is dark and cold.
A bailiff reads aloud the sentence. She is a thief and a harlot and is
to be, "... paraded before the citizenry and chastised with twelve
strokes to her bare back... God save the King!"
To be whipped by the Drum Sergeant, we are told, is a particularly
humiliating and painful affair. No doubt our pretty convict is acutely
aware that the dour old magistrate, in discreetly drawing the
chastiser's attention to her 'bare back', in truth means her to be
bound helpless at the whipping bench, or over a stout trestle, and
lashed about her naked buttocks in the manner fitting for a shameless,
unrepentant young strumpet. That she be of noble birth is of no
account. We are swiftly transported back in time to the bleak prison
yard where a jaded and world-weary crew have gathered to witness the
spectacle of the King's Justice. The bailiff lists the girl's many
grave offences. The reader begins to feel at once the shamefaced
culprit's poignant sense of abandonment and utter disgrace.
"... stole from Colonel Pratt the sum of five shillings and sixpence."
"I did not. I did not!!", she sobs, but the question is moot.
"... apparently while he slept... (ahem)", the Bailiff adds.
An ugly murmur ripples through the whispering onlookers. The officers
and men at the watchouse gate stiffen to attention, each awaiting the
order to assist, while the real villain of the piece, the evil
Tarquin, rounds on his blushing charge with obvious glee, "My word!
This will be something to see!"
The bailiff mouths something inaudible to the fat Sar'Major at his
side. The uniformed man nods approval and turns to address the
prisoner, "Now, my pretty..."
"Come, Celestine! We must gain vantage.", Tarquin commands. She
shivers at the huge hairy hand on her silken alabaster skin but offers
only a token resistance. "There! By the rail!", he snaps, hauling her
up beside him, " COME..! This will be the birch, by thunder! A rare
treat for Madam! Stand here. And, lassie! You're to take heed,
y'hear!?"
"Yes Sir!"
Nothing grows in the grey prison yard, save for the weeds and pallid
lichens which have invaded the cracks and crannies of the bare stone
walls. Everywhere is hard cold stone, from the high rocky parapets to
the worn crumbling steps. The prisoner is alone at the 'place of
correction'. Alone with the guards and the leering spectators. And
alone with the gruesome apparatus of the chastiser's doleful trade.
Our narrator, bless her heart, has, for perhaps the first time in her
noisy life, very little to say. For, in truth, we have arrived
unforgivably late and, of the quaking captive about to be punished, we
know little, yet, up by the barricade, standing with the officers and
the richer folk, we can almost smell her desperate plight - taste her
growing apprehension.
The bailiff is done with his long, acerbic tirade. The flushed,
fidgeting girl has been roundly denounced for her 'wanton harlotry',
her 'tireless mendacity', and for her 'outright brazen thievery'.
Having been pronounced fit to receive the punishment, she is now
handed over to the punishment detail and the fat, pompous Sergeant
Major who will supervise her whipping. Without ceremony, he gives the
order for the prisoner to disrobe.
"Show us yer tits, Sweetmeat!", comes a growl from the back of the
crowd.
"Show us her arse, don'cha mean? Dirty little slut..!", is the one
shrill reply.
"Quiet, you lot!", the Sar'Major bellows. He is growing impatient,
"Get that dress off, now! I'll 'ave none of yer manners 'ere, girlie"
Bravely, the tearful woman turns her back on the jeering and the
reprimands and pulls the dirty smock off over her head. Beneath the
drab cotton dress she is almost bare; save for her tattered black
stockings and white lacy drawers. We are then treated (or perhaps
subjected) to a maddeningly brief but truly florid commentary on
M'Lady's 'powerful feminine allure' her 'delightfully formed' breasts,
the classic flare of the hips, the strong athletic sweep of her
'flawless, downy thighs' - and her 'charmingly rounded little bottom',
firm and delicately proportioned; made 'more for her lover's kisses
than for the fiery kiss of the judicial rod.'
"Guards! Stand ready." The loud, imperious officer rounds menacingly
on the near-naked redhead, "Prisoner!! Face down on the bench!" For a
moment is seems as though the terrified lass will faint. Her eyes roll
back and her knees buckle, "..please... I... Ohhhh..."
"You men! Secure her!", comes the immediate order. "Corporal! A
birch, if you please."
In the ensuing fracas, we witness the young 'criminal' forcefully
overpowered and dragged kicking and cursing to the whipping bench.
"No! No! NOOOO....!!! Pigs!! Bastards!! Let me GO....!!! I'm innocent,
I tell you! Stop! Stop! Listen to me!" The tall stocky figure of the
Drum Sergeant stumps up to accept the proffered instrument of
chastisement. He eyes the guilty wench with obvious relish. Her wrists
have been roughly bound and she is strapped tightly down to the bench
with her pert, upthrust bottom presented for the punishment. To
complete her humiliation the chastiser now comes forward to strip the
mortified young woman of her expensive silk drawers, the last
remaining vestige of her haughty feminine pride and of her high-born
social station. "Oh Sir! Have mercy!", she sobs while he slowly peels
the flimsy little undergarment down past her knees, "Oh mercy please,
good Sir!"
The pale unblemished moons are all a-tremble, as though in
anticipation of the punishing rod. She is terribly frightened.
Judicial discipline, she knows, is uncompromisingly severe and long
service on the prison-hulks and in the gaols of New South Wales will
doubtless have inured the seasoned hand to the suffering he is about
to inflict. He gives the evil black wand an experimental flick,
feeling its dense sodden weight, fresh and dripping from the briny
bucket. In the yard, behind the barricade, the people are growing
restless.
"C'mon ya queer fucker! Get on with it!"
"Aggh! Can ye nay see it's all part of the punishment man. Two
shillings says she swoons before the eighth!"
"Done!!"
"SILENCE, you people!", cries the Sar'Major over the din. "Mister
Overseer!"
"Sah!"
"The sentence is an even dozen. And mind that you lay it on with a
will!"
"Sah!"
"Proceed!"
The stout, bullish fellow flings back his brawny arm and the ferocious
castigation begins. For a brief moment the hellish yard-long bundle of
wet, knotted twigs seems to hang suspended, then descends abruptly
with a tremendous SWOSSHHHHHH!! and a great shower of salty spray.
"Heavenly Saints...!!", poor Celestine squeals with shocked dismay as,
with a sharp meaty smack, the convict-girl's flawless derriere takes
the full force of the blow.
"ONE!!", shouts the Sergeant Major. The chastiser throws back his arm
again, ready to strike, while the woman on the bench is yet to find
herself. Her jaw has dropped and her mouth gapes open, working
noiselessly as she chokes and struggles for a merciful breath, "Ah!
Ah! !hh.. !hh.. aahh..."
SWOSSHHHH..CRRRAAACKKK!
"TWO!"
"OOOHHHHHH...!! PLEASE...!!", she wails, "Oh God! Ohhh, sweet Jesus!
Please DON'T..!!!"
SSSSCCHMAACCKKKKK!!
"THREE!"
"Oooohhh....!!!....."
"That's the way, Bully! Let's hear the little lamb bleat."
"SILENCE IN THE YARD! Chastiser!"
"NO! NOOOHHH...! Please God! Make them stop! PLEASE make them STOP!",
the hapless prisoner howls, but the Good Lord is not listening, it
seems, and her punishment continues.
TTTHHHWWHAACCKKK!!!
"FOUR!" The heavy stroke lashes at the top of her thighs. The woman
shrieks and bucks wildly - in a lewd, immodest display.
SSCHHWOOSSHHH..CRRAACKKK!
"Ohhh! Tarquin! This is awful. May we not..."
"Hush, Celestine!!"
"FIVE!"
SSCHWIIISSSSHHH..! KERRRAAKKK!
"SIX! Corporal! See to the prisoner!" He looks about, annoyed,
"Where.. Where is the physick?", and then turns back to the Sergeant,
"Stand easy there, Mister. The prisoner has fainted."
Nonsense! She swoons!", the Sar'Major retorts angrily. The gaol-wise
Sergeant, though, is not easily swayed, "If I may, Sir. She mocks us.
The harlot is strong as a brood mare and in league with master
bookmaker here. That's what I say! Two shillings was it...? Ha!
Besides the physick lies tucked up abed. One of his own evil draughts,
I expect."
A single stroke of the fierce judicial birch raises a series of long
ragged welts over much of the exposed posterior. Their severity will
vary greatly depending on the weight, size and density of the
instrument chosen, as well as on the skill and severity of the officer
assigned to administer the whipping. The birch would usually consist
of nine or ten fresh birch twigs, each of around a yard's length,
steeped overnight in brine and vinegar. While the instrument is not
specifically designed nor intended to cut or break the skin, women who
have suffered the punishment speak of the 'sting worse than hornets'
which follows every stroke; swelling rapidly to an unbearable,
prickling pain which renders even the most modest Miss careless of all
else. Modesty, after all, means little when she is bare-bottomed
before the crowd. After three lashes with the birch her bottom is
welted fully from hip to hip and the application of further strokes
will often see the prisoner fainting away with the pain and fright of
her predicament. On these occasions the physick or apothecary could be
called on to give smelling salts to reunite the offender with her
truant senses. Frequently, however, there would be no qualified man in
attendance and chastisers would use the means at their disposal.
Sometimes an extra lash would be given - to be sure the prisoner was
indeed unconscious - sometimes a bucket of cold dirty water.
“A fresh birch! At the double!"
The young corporal blushes deeply. "Sir!"
"EXECUTIONER!", the Sergeant Major rails. "I shall not be mocked by
some highborn slut! I want to see you put your back into it!"
"Sah!" The corporal has returned at a trot and the cruel chastiser
takes up his new weapon which, if anything, looks more formidable than
the first, "Thank you, Corporal." He turns back to the Sar'Major,
"Ready, Sah!"
"Continue!"
SSSCHHMAAACCKKK! - "Ooooohhhhh.....!!!"
"SEVEN! Here! You, man! Quit playin' with yerself and lend a hand!
Hold her down for pete's sake..! 'fore she snaps the crossbeams!"
The leather strap at her waist has, in the course of the flogging,
worked loose and the prisoner has begun to thrash about uncontrollably
in her frantic efforts to escape the bench and the ongoing ordeal of
her birching. An NCO, eager to assist, jumps to and claps a strong
hand at the small of the girl's heaving back, "Courage, lassie.", he
counsels, 'Twill be over soon enough." He can smell her sweat and her
fear. He tightens his grip, holding her steady with both hands. "The
prisoner is ready.", he announces, barely able to contain his
excitement.
SSSCHHWWOOOOSSSHHH! .. KERAAACCKKKK!
"EIGHT!"
TTHHHWWWWAAACKKKK!!!
"NINE! Stand ready, Gentlemen. Master Physick. How kind..."
When her punishment is done, the howling, pleading, chastened young
hussy will be set free to sin again. In the meantime, the mumbling,
crotchety old physick has seen fit to attend. He examines the
prisoner; still humping and thrusting like an enraged animal. She
spits and she hisses, her face sodden with tears, her poor little
bottom thrashed a hot scalding red.
"She weeps."
"Crocodile tears!", the Sergeant Major roars.
"Mmm.. yes.. Mmm.. Perhaps you are right. As you were, gentlemen."
"Ready with the birch, Mister! Guard! Take hold!"
"Sah!"
"Three to go home with!"
"Ohhhh!! Dear God! Have mercy! Have mercy!!
"MISTER OVERSEER..! DO YOUR DUTY!!"
TTTHHHWWWWAAACCKKK!
"TEN!" You! And you! Her legs! - Sergeant!"
SSSHHHWWWWAAACCKKK!!
"ELEVEN!"
TTTHHHWWWWAAACCKKK!!!
"TWELVE! Stand down, Mister.",the Sergeant Major commands, with a
smug, self-satisfied grin, "Well done. Guards ! Release the
prisoner."
The punishment is over and the stricken nymph is unfastened and helped
shakily to her feet. The poor creature seems barely able to straighten
up, let alone walk. The corporal is trying to force her torn, useless
drawers into her hands but dressing herself is out of the question.
For a minute or so she remains half-slumped, blubbering and moaning,
supported by two guards. Finally a man steps forward to take charge of
the woman.
"Take her away, then!", the Sar'Major orders, and the last we see of
our bawling, beaten she-imp, is her being led, limping from the
platform - still naked and weeping - by her none too sympathetic
husband and his impassive coachman. As the piteous sobs recede into
the distance, our tremulous narrator recounts for us her odd feelings
of 'overwhelming awe and excitement' at what she has witnessed. Never,
she says, will she forget the young woman's 'frightful screams echoing
about the high stone walls of the prison yard', nor the 'awful sound
of the birch' as the stern judicial chastisement was administered.

Birching