If some one could only tell us exactly what should, and should not, be done in a reform school a great advance would be achieved in penalogy, which at present is about as much of a science as is sociology. Both—and criminology can be thrown in, too—always reminded me of a cat after a good sousing—they are quite as much in earnest in shaking off what does not agree with them, or what they think does not agree with them, as is the cat in drying itself; but again, like the cat, the shaking often seems to make them look more ragged than ever.

The most that I can attempt to do here is to describe the Reform School I learned to know in Pennsylvania, and tell what it accomplished and failed to accomplish in my case.

The superintendent was the brother of one of the most astute politicians and officeholders this country has produced. He held his position largely through his brother's influence, and might just as well have been given any other "job," so far as his particular fitness for public office was concerned. In spite of all this, however, he was a fairly kind and just man, and probably did right according to his light and leading.

The institution sheltered some three hundred boys and girls, the latter being officially separated from the boys; the "safeties," however, the boys who had the run of the farm, saw not a little of them. The place was arranged on the cottage plan—the boys of a certain size being toed off to a certain cottage. For instance, I was placed with lads much younger and far more inexperienced than I was simply because I was their height. It struck me at the time—and I am even more impressed to-day—that this was a very peculiar way of classifying prisoners, particularly boys. Far more important, it seems to me, is a classification based on age, training, experience, disposition and temperament. But the great State which had taken me in charge practically overlooked all of these matters in locating us boys in the different homes. Who was to blame for this I cannot tell, but one would think that the superintendent would have thought out something better than the system we had to live under. Right here is the trouble in so many penal and reformatory institutions—what other superintendents and wardens have found "good enough," their latest successor also finds "good enough"; the wheels and cogs have been kept going on the old basis, and the new-comer is afraid to "monkey" with them during his term of office. Many a prison in this country merits a good overhauling, and while exposure of misuse of public funds is the order of the day, and new blood is being called for in so many quarters, it might not be a bad plan to examine carefully into the management of our penitentiaries, workhouses, reform schools and jails.

There was no wall around the school to which I had been committed, a fact which I noted immediately on my arrival. In place of a wall, and as supposed safeguards against escapes, the superintendent had a shrieking whistle for both day and night, and a huge, flaming natural gas-light, more particularly for night, although the miserable thing, as I considered it, burned the entire twenty-four hours. There were five divisions, or cottages, for the boys, including the main building, which could hardly be called a cottage. Unless my memory plays me false, I was in Division G, next to that of the "biggest" boys, yet I was considerably older and certainly more traveled and "schooled" than many of the latter. Theoretically each inmate was to remain in the school until twenty-one, unless relatives or friends took him away after he had earned the requisite number of good-conduct marks. Ten was the maximum daily number, and five thousand were required before good conduct was considered established and a release permissible. The day was about equally divided between study and work, but being outclassed for study in Division G, I was allowed to work all day in the brush factory. Punishment was measured according to the offense, sometimes also according to the number of marks a boy had and the proximity of his release. But in general these rules prevailed: For minor offenses, "standing in line"—a sentence involving loss of the privilege of play and the necessity of toeing a mark with other victims during recesses; for serious offenses, a prescribed number of lashes with a leather strap, a reduction in the boy's marks, and imprisonment in a cell on bread and water. Some boys had long since earned their five thousand marks, and were theoretically—there is so much that is theoretical in State institutions—entitled to their freedom. But no relatives, friends or employers coming forward to vouch for their safe-keeping "outside," they were compelled to stay on until somebody came to their rescue.

The word "outside" characterized a great deal of the life in the school. Used originally exclusively in penitentiaries, the boys had appropriated the word for their own use as well, although there was no wall, and the "outside" was as plainly visible as the "inside." Under restraint and kept within bounds we certainly were, but it was considered smart and "wise" to use the prison expression. Consequently every boy with any gumption in him was continually thinking about what he would do when free again, when the great "outside" would be open territory once more.

We also had an institutional lingo, or slang, patterned as much as possible after the dialect used by "the real thing," the crooks in the "Pen." Guards became "screws," bread and water "wind pudding," detectives "elbows," and so on. When among ourselves, in shop, schoolroom or at play, aping "the real thing," the crooks, and their mannerisms, or what we took to be such—and nearly all the boys had had preliminary jail experiences and had associated with crooks—was a constant amusement for all, and with many a serious study. This posing was one of the worst things taught and learned in the school. Originally intended to be very humanitarian and modern in purpose and organization, to be a disciplinary home rather than a mere place of incarceration—witness the absence of a wall and the cottage system of housing—the boys themselves were defeating these ends with their prison conversations, things they had learned at the taxpayers' expense in various county jails.

Speaking generally, the boys were divided into two sets or rings—the "stand-patters" and the "softies." The former were the boys of spirit and adventure, the principal winners in their classes as well as on the playground; the latter were the tale-bearers, the mouthy ones—"lungers" was also a good name for them—who split on the "stand-patters" when "lunging it" promised to gain favors for them. Whatever else I did or did not do while in the school, I fought very shy of all officers who tried to get me to "peach" on my companions. This may not have been a virtue, but it secured good standing for me among the boys of spirit and enterprise, and I think that any boy wanting agreeable companionship in such a place would naturally turn to the "stand-patters." Of course, my selection of cronies was watched by the officers and made a mental note of to be used later on, either for or against my record, as it suited the purposes of the observing overseer, as were many other things that I did or failed to do. In general the officers were fair-minded and reasonable, but thinking them over now, with the exception of one or two, they were not particularly adapted for reform-school work; they were mainly men who had drifted into the life accidentally, and had clung to it for want of something better to do. They were judged by the boys according to their varying abilities in wielding the strap. Some were strong and heavy, and were called "sockdologers"; others, not so effective physically, were dubbed "lightweights." At night we slept in dormitories, leaving all our clothes except our shirts in the basement, an arrangement which made night escapes difficult. In the main the dormitory life was clean and correct, indeed very much cleaner than cell life in many of our prisons and jails. The daily programme, as I recall it now, began at five-thirty in the morning in summer and at six in the winter. The great whistle started the day, and we all had to jump out of our beds, make them, and then in single file march to the basement, where we washed and dressed. Soon after came the molasses-and-tea breakfast, after which we had a half-hour or so on the playground. Recreation over, we were toed off into two squads, one for the schoolroom and the other for the factory. There were also "detail" boys, inmates of long standing who could be trusted as messengers, in the bakery, plumbing shop, and at different occupations in the cottages and on the farm. I made a bold and early bid for a "detail" job, but with no success. The superintendent told me that only those boys of whom he was sure received such positions, and I retired with the knowledge that he was not sure of me, and the determination to make him keep on guessing about me indefinitely. At noon sharp, came dinner, followed by another half-hour of recreation, when school and factory started again. Six o'clock saw us all at supper, and nine in bed, the intervening time being spent in the playground and in the schoolroom.

One day there was a revolution in the factory. One of the older boys had thrown a wrench at a brow-beating guard, and had been well beaten for his disobedience—beaten and hit with the man's fist, the boy claimed. At recess there was a hurried consultation among the "stand-patters."

"Let's hike it to the Super's office and complain," some one suggested, and before we had half seriously considered what we were doing, away we scampered to the superintendent's office in the main building, the officer to be complained about following leisurely after us. It was as clear a case of mob insanity as I have ever seen; the battered and bloody face of our companion so incensed us that rules and regulations were thrown to the winds. Indeed, if all of us had kept on going, so fleet were our feet, probably half could have gotten away for keeps then and there. But escape was not in our minds. We wanted, and were going to demand, if possible, the dismissal of the overbearing guard. At first, as is the case with nearly all mobs, the various boys wanted to talk at once, and the superintendent had considerable difficulty in getting our side of the story. We were then ordered to the schoolroom of our division, the superintendent desiring to interview the guard alone. The upshot of the affair was that the guard resigned and each boy received fifteen lashes with the strap. The superintendent personally attended the thrashing. Our first officer, a mild-mannered, much bewhiskered man, who had always treated me very considerately, was the first to wield the strap. We boys sat in our seats with folded arms, awaiting our turns. Finally mine came. The officer looked at me disappointedly; he did not seem to want to punish me. He had to obey orders, however, just as we boys did, and I received my fifteen lashes. During each "whaling" the other victims looked on intently, like children about to sit down at a Thanksgiving dinner; they wanted to see if the "whaled" one would "squeal." Excepting a more or less half-witted lad, who had run with the rest of us for no other reason than that he "saw us going and thought we were playing follow the leader," none of us whimpered. The first officer gave out completely after ten boys had been punished, and a substitute—the school carpenter—took his place. I remember how glad I was that my turn came under the first officer's rÉgime, and when he had begun to wobble.

Although the much-disliked factory guard had disappeared, the revolt and "whaling" set the escape thoughts going in the minds of four boys at a very much accelerated speed. Such thoughts are always on top, as it were, wherever human beings are shut up—even in hospitals; but the four lads—I was one of them—put their heads together and plotted as never before. A fight, and a subsequent order to stand "in line," sent my desire for freedom soaring uncommonly high. One of the "softies" and I had clashed for some reason or other, and a "whaling" at night, besides "standing in line," stared us in the face. Throughout the afternoon I pondered over ways and means to reach the great "outside," taking four trusted "stand-patters" into my confidence; they also wanted to go. For different reasons punishment of some kind awaited all of us, and as I was almost sure of a thrashing for fighting, I concluded that, if caught, I might as well make it do duty for trying to escape as well. All the boys calculated on such lines very nicely.

It was finally decided that the most practicable plan was to jump from the schoolroom window, when we were marching in line to the basement, to undress for the night. The distance to the ground was perhaps twenty feet, but during the afternoon we studied very carefully the probable spot we should land on, and all felt equal to the adventure. We should have to make the escape in bare feet, and without coats, but we decided that we didn't want the tell-tale jackets anyhow, and we thought we could smuggle our socks and caps into the schoolroom without detection.

That last evening in the schoolroom was a very nervous one, for four boys at least. From time to time, when the officer was not looking, we exchanged significant glances to make sure that there had been no defection in our ranks. Our caps and socks were hidden in our clothing. At last the whistle blew, books were put away, and the order to form line was given. My mind was firmly made up. Even if the other boys weakened I was going through the open window and on to the "outside." For some reason I felt as if success awaited me, and barring the drop from the window and a possible immediate capture, I feared very little. I was the first to take the drop. Suddenly I fell out of line, scrambled over the sill, and—dropped into the darkness. Whether the other three followed my example or not I do not know; probably not, because my disappearance made the officer reach threateningly for his revolver, as I was able to see while going over the sill. Once on the ground I waited for nobody, but went tearing over the lawn, barefooted and bareheaded, in the direction of the railroad track at the foot of the slope. There I concealed myself under a fence, and in a moment the great whistle told the surrounding country, with long blasts, that a "Ref" boy had escaped, while the flaring light lit up the lawn and assisted the officers in their search. Pretty soon I heard their voices and hurrying footsteps all about me, but they never came quite close enough to uncover my hiding place. I must have remained under the fence two good hours before I dared to proceed. This was about the conventional time given to a search, and I remained silent as the grave until all was quiet. Then, crawling rather than walking, I made my way to the railroad bridge, crossed it cat-like, and proceeded boldly toward the wooded hills opposite the school—the hills that I had so often looked at longingly, and wondered whether I should ever be able to cross without being captured. The underbrush and fallen twigs and branches must have hurt my feet, but the scratches and bruises were hardly noticed in the excitement of getting away. And although the night had become fairly cool, and I had nothing but shirt and trousers to cover me, I was literally in a violent perspiration when I reached the top of the first hill, and looked back on the school and the flaming light.

"Good-bye, brush factory and strap," I murmured. "May we never meet again."

Early morning found me lying exhausted, with torn feet and hands, near a roadway leading, as I saw, to open fields where there were houses and barns. It seemed as if during the night I must have traveled easily twenty miles, but as a matter of fact I had covered but four. The sun was not yet up, and I lay quiet for some time, considering how the day would best be spent and nursing my sore feet. Gradually an unconquerable appetite and thirst came over me, which were accentuated by the smoke issuing from the farmhouse chimneys. This was a sure token that the breakfast fires had been started, and I recalled with relish the scant meal that the boys at the school would soon be eating. However, I was free! No guard was there to boss me about, and I could linger or proceed, as I wished. But that appetite! Finally, in desperation, I determined to risk my liberty and ask for something to eat at the nearest farmhouse. It was impossible to proceed without food, and I very much needed a new outfit of clothing, both for safety and looks.

My reception at the farmhouse was puzzling at first. The good farmer and his wife gave me a bountiful meal, but the former looked at me suspiciously, and remarked that he had heard the school-whistle the night before. His good wife, however, was very compassionate and sympathetic. There was a grown-up son, who also seemed to be on my side. Would the mother and son win, I wondered. When the meal was over the farmer frankly told me that he knew from my clothes that I was a schoolboy, and that he did not believe at all the story I had given him by way of explanation. It was a case of run for dear life or ask for mercy. I determined to trust to my powers of persuasion, and for one solid hour I pleaded with that farmer not to take me back. He knew, and I knew, that he would receive fifteen dollars reward for my return, and as it was Sunday, and he was bound for church, the side trip to the school would take him very little out of his way.

"But it is against the law for me to help you to get away," the farmer contended. "I can be fined for doing it."

"Just give me some old clothes and shoes," I replied, "and no one will ever know that you saw me. Besides, I'll only go to the devil in that school. It did me no good."

The farmer seemed to waver, and I turned to the son, asking him to intercede for me, telling him a little, very little, about myself. He smiled. "Pop ain't goin' to take you back, don't worry," he consoled me, and it seemed as if a great stone had been lifted off my back. Very few times in my life have I experienced the same peace and thankfulness that were mine after the son had spoken. Soon he brought me some old boots, a coat and a different cap, for which I gladly exchanged that of the school. When my pockets had been filled with sandwiches and doughnuts, and the farmer had at last finished cautioning me about being careful, I bade these good people good-bye. If they should ever see these lines, I want them once again to receive my heartfelt thanks for their hospitality, and to know that their kindness was not altogether misplaced.

All during that Sunday I remained hidden in some woods, resuming my journey toward the West Virginia state line at night. After five days' travel I crossed the imaginary boundary—it was a living thing to me—and was at last out of the jurisdiction of the superintendent and his officers. Then began that long eight months' tramp trip, during which I finally came to my senses and said Adios to Die Ferne forever—Adios in the sense that never again was she able to entangle me in a mesh of difficulties nor to entice me away from the task set before me. She thought many and many a time afterward, when the call of the Road was strong and tempting, that she again had me in her toils. But respectable vacation trips or bona fide investigations in the tramp world sufficed to satisfy my Wanderlust. Without doubt these excursions and investigations were a compromise with the Road in a certain sense; the wanderer's temperament lingered with me for years. But Die Ferne was beaten for all time.

To the school life and the ensuing eight months' sojourn In Hoboland credit is also due for the disappearance of my pilfering inclination. When, how, why, or where it went, are questions I can answer but imperfectly to-day. It slipped out of my life as silently and secretly as it had squirmed into it, and all that I can definitely remember now in the shape of a "good-bye" to it, on my part, is a sudden awakening, one morning on the Road, and then and there resolving to leave other people's property alone. There was no long consideration of the matter, I merely quit on the spot; and when I knew that I had quit, that I was determined to live on what was mine or on nothing, the rest of the Road experience was a comparatively easy task.

I have said that I told the farmer who abetted me in my escape from the school, that I should only go to the devil if taken back to it. It is impossible to say now whether this would have happened or not. But it is unfair, as I think the matter over to-day, not to admit that, with all its failings and drawbacks, the school life helped to bring me to my senses. It set me to thinking, as never before, about the miserable cussedness of my ways, and it showed me in no unmistakable manner where Die Ferne would eventually lead me, unless I broke with her. The long, wearisome tramp trip that followed did what else was necessary to show me that kicking against the good, as I had been doing for so long, was unprofitable and unmanly.

At one time in my life I seriously contemplated taking an officer's position in a reform school, in the hope that I might be of use in that way. Politics—they are plastered over everything in our country, it seems—and doubts about my fitness for such work, eventually decided me against attempting it. But I desire to say here, that for young men interested in institutional work, and willing to make a number of sacrifices, I know of no better field for doing good than in a reform school. The more a candidate for such a position has studied, traveled and observed the better. In Germany there is a school or seminary where applicants for positions in corrective and, I think, penal institutions as well, go through a set course of training and study before they are accepted. Something similar, minus the rigid German notions of the infallibility of their "systems" and "cure-alls," might be tried to advantage in this country. The work to be done is deserving of the most sympathetic interest on the part of college and university trained men who feel drawn to such activities.