HATTIE MOORE.
TUSCARAWAS COUNTY POOR-HOUSE,
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.”
So, the expressman said, they came and got him, and they drove out and
loaded her into his express wagon, and he brought her out here.
“Her name is Betsy Gaskins,” says he.
It was cold and stormy, and the poor old soul was in great pain all
night.
A few minutes ago I went in, and she was breathing so weak that I put my
hand in her bosom to see if her heart was beating, and I found this
letter from “Jobe Gaskins.” It seems she is a married woman, and he has
been away from home and is coming back. I send it to you, and, if you
see him, tell him where he can find his wife.
Now, Mr. Editor, you had better send this old man’s letter back, so that
if the old lady gets better she will have it. But I don’t know as she
will ever be much better; she seems to be sinking.
Send the old man out as soon as he gets there.
From a friend to Betsy Gaskins,
HATTIE MOORE.
JOBE’S FOURTH LETTER.
AKRON, O., March 12, 1896.
_To Betsy Gaskins._
DEAR WIFE:—They let me out last Monday. I felt very strange when they
opened them big doors and told me to go. When I got out onto the street
I felt jist like a feller does when he is lost in a big woods. I dident
know which way to start. But I wanted to git back to you. I saw a depot
marked “Woodland Station,” and I went over there—went in and sot down.
Pretty soon a passenger train come in headed south. Everybody got up to
take it, and, I dont know why, but I went with the crowd and into the
car. When the train got started, I thought of havin no ticket or money.
The conductor dident get around to me until we had passed Newburg.
I was lookin out at the big buildin where they keep crazy people, when
he teched me on the shoulder and says, “Ticket.”
I told him I had no ticket nor money; that I was a old man; had been out
tryin to find work and couldent; that my wife was sick and I was wantin
to git back.
He said: “You cant ride on this train. Youle have to git off.”
I asked him if he couldent let me ride; that I would pay him some time
if I ever got the money.
“No,” says he, “my instructions are to carry no one without a ticket or
the money.”
I told him the people what owned the railroad was rich and wouldent care
if he let a old man ride to Bayard.
“No,” says he, “you must git off at Bedford. Ime not permitted to carry
you.”
Well, when they got to Bedford I jist sot still, thinkin he might forgit
me. But when he come in I saw he was mad. He rang the bell, and the
train stopped; then him and the brakesman come and took hold of me and
dragged me out of that train, and when they got me out they give me a
shove, jumped into the train, rang the bell and went.
[Illustration: “He teched me on the shoulder.”]
They shoved me so hard that I fell down and struck my knee agin a big
iron pin that laid beside the track, and hurt it so bad that I can
hardly walk. Then I come on till I got to Hudson; then I got onto a
freight train between two cars and rode to Cuyahoga Falls; there they
arrested me for it and was a goin to send me to the work-house agin. But
when I told them all they let me go if I would agree to git out of town
in thirty minits. They went through all my pockets, to see if I had any
money, before they told me that. I got out, and now I am walkin. I will
git there as soon as I can. The soles are off my boots, and my feet are
wet nearly all the time.
Hopin this will find you better,
I am your lovin husband,
JOBE GASKINS.
[Illustration: “I got onto a freight train.”]