River Falls journal. [volume] (River Falls, Pierce County, Wis.) 1872-2019, 1908-04-16

gress who had been arrested for dis
orderly conduct on Twenty-eighth
street.
Within the Prison Doors.
The sorry procession, ludicrous in
spite of its wretched significance, as
Falstaff's army, marched from the
landing to the broad doors whose stone
steps had been worn by the feet of
thousands of the city's criminals.
The door of the great cast1elike Jail
swung back grindingly on it's heavy
hinges. ITO the right" shouted the
man with the voice of a tugboat whis-
tie, and the motley human assortment
went in at the open door of the ward
ems office. Warden O'Fallon, white
haired, bureaucratic of manner, with
crisp, metallic voice, sat at his desk
and peered from under bushy brows at
the women. Javert himself could not
have been less emotional.
Your age?" he said, peering under
the bushy brows at Katherine.
'Twen-Oh, well, go"
"And your" to Charlotte.
II am a."
Il brought her up" volunteered the
voluble Katherine.
"And right badly, I should say
came in the warden's crisp, biting
tones. Murphy, call Miss Moriarity.' .
The matron, stout, soft-voiced, firm
willed, entered. She looked the WON
en- prisoners over with level glance.
Katherine preened and fidgeted, trying
to display her prettiness in a good
light. She flushed when she saw by
Matron Moriarity's cool glance that
for her she had no individuality. She
was merely on "of the new batch"
The First Night in Jail.
"Come this way" said Miss Mortar
ity, and the female prisoners followed,
marching in pairs, Katherine still the
companion of the bent, mumbling
Italian woman leering at her own un-
translatable jests; Charlotte striding
beside the negress. Across a wide
with echoes of the footsteps of the
prisoners, Miss Moriarity led her or
rather drove the prisoners, to the fe-
male department of the workhouse.
The long, high-walled, narrow room
repeated the sound of their footsteps
holloway, for the female department
was empty. The women were at work
in the laundry, the kitchen, or the
Sewing-rOOm.
The women sat down upon their mar
row cots for the very good reason that
there was nothing else to sit upon. In
the narrow, grave-like room, white
washed walled, was a small, rough,
triangular bracket that held a candle,
drinking cup, with space left for one
book, a small Testament. At the foot
was an electric light. On a rough
stand stood a basin. That was all.
The prison smell hung heavy upon the
tiny room, for the only means of ven
tilation was the barred door, through
the spaces of which filtered a slight
hint of the outer air that came through
the corresponding windows in the
great gray walls opposite the cell.
No Dainties at This Meal.
Such a supper! No truff1es, no lob
ster, no champagne! Merely dry
bread and bologna and coffee, eaten
from tin plate, or drunk from the
cheapest tin cups with but one aid,
for knives and forks are prohibited at
Blackwell's Island. There, primitive
hands and primitive teeth are sup
plemented by one tin spoon. Instead
Of damask napery were rough, narrow
boards, scrubbed clean, but boards,
nevertheless.
This, after the sunny, velvet carpets
and silken draperieS of their rooms at
the Waldorf-Astoria-t truffies and
Holsters and champagne and scented
cigarettes. The elder of the Poillons
dampened three handkerchiefs while
she sat there waiting for the nasty
meal to be over.
To cells 10 and 10 they went again
after tea. There, although the cleo
trio light may burn until half-past
nine, there was darkness, and a hilari-
Gus negress ratified the door of her cell
and cursed softly because the sound
of her neighbors' sobbing fretted her.
Beginning the Long Day.
At five the next morning the gong
sounded. Every prisoner sprang out
of bed. If she fingered she would be
punished. Punishment, she knew,
meant brief interview with the ward
en-. and then the dark cell behind the
big iron door at the end of the mess
hall. The dark cell, every prisoner
can tell you, breaks the boldest spirit
and renders the widest captive hum
BILE in a few hours. 1t is, they tell
YOU, an inferno of silence and dark
ness.
The women thrust themselves into
the ugly striped uniforms, combing
their hair back plain and smooth from
their foreheads and fastening it in a
tight, unbecoming knot at the back
of the head, as is the rule at Black
wells, and putting on the black
knitted prison hood, grasp the cell
pals in their hands and set forth on
the first procession of the day. Down
the stairs, through the corridor, past
sri,4,i,4i OBSERVATION-DISCLOSURES
CHARM OF FRENCH RURAL LIFE