After Prison--What?

by Maud Ballington Booth

Arriving at one of the big Chicago stations I stood undecided on the crowded sidewalk as to which direction I should take. A voice hailed me and I looked up to see a cabman waving his whip enthusiastically at me. Thinking that after the manner of his tribe, he was seeking a fare, I paid no attention. Leaving his cab, he hastened to me to greet me with outstretched hand and smiling face. "Yes," said the officer at my side, "he is one of your boys paroled from Joliet, and lately he has received his full discharge."

I had been speaking in a crowded audience in one of the large churches in the far west. At the close of my address quite a number of friends came forward to speak to me. A gentleman grasped my hand and as I looked into the handsome, intelligent face, I had a faint recollection of having met him before, or was it only a resemblance to some one I had known? As he greeted me, I caught the gleam of the little silver pin worn by members of the Defenders' League, an organization of the friends of the Volunteers. I said most cordially how glad I always was to meet our Defenders, but his hand did not loosen its grasp, and he was searching my face for a more personal recognition. "So you don't know me," he said at last. "No," I said, "I must confess I do not. Where have I met you before?" "It was in Charlestown, Little Mother," came the answer with that thrill of loving gratitude that has so often warmed my heart in the voices of many of my "boys." Could it be? Yes, truly it was a young man who had gone from our League in that Eastern prison years before, and here he was, a prosperous successful business man. "I have brought my mother with me," he said and my hand was laid in that of a sweet-faced gentlewoman, in whose eyes a wealth of love and pride shone through the moisture of tears. That was not all, for he then told me he had been recently married and brought forward a beautiful young girl whom he presented to me with the pride of a true affection. She made the last of the happy trio who lived in the pretty little home in the outskirts of that city, where flowers and birds and almost perpetual sunshine make the shadows of prison bars seem very far away. Those prison days to him are now but the nightmare of the dead years which, through God's grace, will come again no more.

At that same gathering I had started to leave the platform when I found my way barred by a little family group who had waited for me at the steps,—father, mother and three little tots. In a few brief words he told me he was one of my San Quentin "boys," home now over a year and that all was well with him. Then he left the little wife to tell the rest of it which she did most fervently, describing the earnest hard-working life her husband was leading, and their now happy home, while the tears that could not be kept back, told their own tale of how much it all meant to her and the three little children they had brought with them to see me.

Sometimes it is a motorman who smiles me a greeting as I board his car, or a waiter in a restaurant who drops a word or two that have nothing to do with the bill of fare. Once a cook in white cap and apron ran out to greet me regardless of the crowd of passers-by. Wherever it may be, there are always the glad smiles and the few earnest words that send me on way saying, "It is all well worth while."

Some gentlemen in an office were discussing the possibility of the reformation of prisoners, and questions were exchanged concerning the stamp of men reached at Hope Hall and their sincerity. After the conversation had been carried on for some little time one of the gentlemen said, "Well, I am one of Mrs. Booth's 'boys.'"

A contractor came to seek men from our Home, whom he said he was willing to employ. After he had talked about the character of work and the style of man needed, it was found that he had himself some time ago, graduated from Hope Hall, and now that he was successful and prosperous, he returned to give the helping hand to others.

As I travel in my lecture trips all over the country, sometimes speaking for four or five weeks every night in a different city, I am brought constantly into touch with new audiences, and in almost every audience, I find some one of my "boys" who, seeing my lecture announced, has come there to greet me with the news of his well-doing. It is all these pleasant surprises by the way that are helping to prove to us how far-reaching and successful the work has already become.

I have written much of our "boys" but what of our "girls"? That question has been asked me many a time, and in the first years of our work I had nothing to report, as our efforts were confined to the men in state prison. They of course present the greatest need. This is evident for two reasons; first, they vastly outnumber the women, and secondly, there are no places for them to turn to on their discharge, while throughout the country there are many rescue homes for women, where girls from state prison can be received. Our work is not in operation in the reformatories, lesser penitentiaries or jails where women are mostly confined. We have kept exclusively to state prison, because the field is so large that time and strength and limited means compel us to draw the line somewhere, and we naturally have chosen the field where the need is the greatest. In many of the prisons we visit there are no women, and where they are incarcerated, there are very few. In New York state for instance, the number is about fifty women to thirty-five hundred men; in New Jersey about twenty women to eight hundred men; in California fifteen women to eighteen hundred men, and so on. Where there are women, we have started our League among them and recently we have had several come home, some being paroled to us while others have turned to us for help when they have received their discharge. Of course, they could not be received at Hope Hall, which is a men's institution, but we have either sent them to the Volunteer Rescue Home or found positions for them at once.

One woman came to us with a sweet little child in her arms, a prison-born baby who had never before seen the outside world. It was a sad story of a hard-working woman yielding to temptation, at a time when woman through physical weakness should hardly be blamed for her actions. The little child that came to share her sorrow was born in jail before her trial, and together they were sent to state prison, when the babe was two weeks old, on a five years' sentence. They were forgotten and abandoned by the father and husband. After two years she was paroled to us, but in that first return to the world with the babe in her arms she was overwhelmed by bewilderment and despair. She had no home. Her husband had deserted her. One little child had died of grief when she was sent to prison, and two others were in institutions. The first week she almost wished herself back in prison, for she felt her bereaved condition so acutely. We found her a good position in a Christian family, where she has proved a most faithful hard worker. The little one boards with good people near enough for the mother to see her constantly. This woman is receiving excellent wages, and saving her money carefully, and she hopes some day to make a little home for herself.

Another "girl" was a sweet-faced Jewish maiden. The prison authorities hesitated about her parole because she had been very hard to manage in prison, and had been constantly punished. This was probably due to a highly-strung temperament, fighting against the confining high walls and prison regulations. She came direct to us and then went to work in a Jewish family. Every month she reported to us and her bright face and the good news she brought always told a story of faithful effort to do right. After she had received her final discharge papers, she was married and now has a happy and comfortable little home, with a kind husband well able to support her, as he is a good workman. She runs into my little office constantly with all the news of her life, and advises with me upon every question of importance. Her only sorrow since she came home has been the loss of her first baby, a grief which to her with her intensely affectionate nature, proved an almost unbearable bereavement.