Near New Philadelphia, O., March 15, 1896.
MR. EDITOR:—My name is Hattie Moore. My age is seventeen. My father was a soldier. My mother is a widow. I was betrayed by one of the leading city officials, and while he to-day is performing the duty and drawing the salary of an office of trust and honor, his child and I, its girl mother, are inmates of this poor-house.
I write to let you know about Betsy Gaskins. They brought her here yesterday. She is very sick. She is delirious and talks a great deal in her sleep, about somebody by the name of Jobe, and about their home and high interest, and $3,800, and being turned out, and all such things. Judging from the wrinkles on her face and the hard places in her hands, she must have been a hard-working old woman.
I pity her so much that every now and then I steal into the room where they put her. I stayed in there nearly all night last night, though I knew it was against the rules. But my baby slept well, and I hated to let the poor woman lie in that room all night sick and alone.
I just thought that if my old mother was sick and poor and taken to a place like this, I would love any girl who would be kind to her and pity her. I would love her even though she had been betrayed and was in the poor-house to get away from the taunts of a heartless world.
I asked the man who brought her here who she was and where she came from.
He diden’t seem to know much about her. He said that some people found her sick and delirious in a small house in the west end and notified the township trustees; that the trustees went to the prosecuting attorney and wanted to know what was best to be done with her and if the law would permit them to hire somebody to go to her house and take care of her. The prosecuting attorney asked if she had any money or property. The trustees told him that she had not; that she was very poor—had nothing.
“Send her to the poor-house,” says the prosecutor, “send her to the poor-house. The best thing to do with such people is to get rid of them.”