 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
LOST CHILDREN IN NEW YORK.
“Lost child!”
That used to be
the cry along the
street, but now,
though there are a
dozen children lost
every day in New
York, the thing is so
systematized that it
is impossible for a
child to be lost for
any length of time.
The only thing is
to know what to do
to find it, and if you
read three minutes
longer, you will
know all about it.
“How can we find a lost child?”
The first thing you must do after the child is lost
is to go to the Police Headquarters on Mulberry
street, near Houston. Away up in the fifth story of
that marble-front building are three rooms labeled
“LOST CHILDREN'S DEPARTMENT.”
beds for the little lost children and foundlings of the
city. Yes, and sometimes for old men and women, too,
lost in their second childhood.
At the head of this department you will see the
middle-aged matron, Mrs. Ewing—a bright, systematic
American woman.
“How do the lost children get here?”
First they are picked up by kind-hearted policemen
and taken to their respective station-houses. There
they are kept until seven P. M. Then the Sergeant of
Police sends them with a ticket to Mrs. Ewing, at
Police Headquarters.
“What does Mrs. Ewing do with them?”
She first enters the child's name on the book, gives
it a number, then writes its sex, age, color, by whom
found, where found, precinct sent from, and time received.
Then, after the child is gone, she writes after
its name how long it stayed, and what became of it.
“What becomes of the children sent here?”
Every effort is made to find out where the child
lives, who its parents are, the father's profession, etc.;
and if, at the end of three days, nothing is heard from
its parents or friends, it is sent to George Kellock,
No. 66 Third avenue, Superintendent of the “Out-Door
Poor” for the Department of Public Charities
and Correction.
“What then?”
Here, in the Charity and Correction building, are
some nice rooms kept by a good woman by the name
of Tumey, and the children are cared for till the old
foot of Twenty-sixth street and the East River, and
accompanies them on the boat to the Foundling
Hospital on Randall's Island, where they stay at school
till they are claimed, bound out, or become old enough
to support themselves.
We have now followed the lost child from the time
when first lost, through the local station-house, police
headquarters, Mr. Kellock's office, and to Randall's
Island.
LOST BABIES.
Now we will return to the Police Headquarters and
hear what Mrs. Ewing says about the babies.
“How many children are lost per month?” I asked
of the matron.
“I had eight yesterday. From 400 to 500 pass
through our hands every month in summer, but in
winter not so many. Then, sometimes, we have old
people too.”
“Do you have many old people?”
“No, only a few. Yesterday the police brought in
a nice old lady with white hair, who seemed to be all
in confusion. The sight of the police had frightened
her,” continued the matron, “but as soon as I got her
in here, I gave her a nice cup of tea, and commenced
to find out where she lived.
“`Who do you live with, grandma?' I asked, for she
was eighty years old.
“She said she lived No. 700, but she didn't know
the street. Then pretty soon she seemed to gain confidence
bills and a Third Avenue Savings Bank book.
“`See,' said the old lady, confidentially, `I went to
get this and I got confused when I came out. I live
on the same street with the bank.'
“And sure enough,” said the matron, “when we
looked in the directory there we found her daughter's
residence, No. 700 Third avenue. When the police
took the old lady home the daughter was half crazy
for fear her mother had been robbed.”
“Do you have a good deal of trouble in finding
out the residences of children?”
“Not very often. But sometimes the children stray
across the ferries from Jersey City and Brooklyn; and
then there are so many streets in Brooklyn and Jersey
named after our streets that we are sorely puzzled.
“The other day, to illustrate, a pretty little German
girl was picked up down towards Fulton street. The
only thing she knew was that she lived corner of
Warren and Broadway, so the police brought her up
here. I sent her the next day to the corner of Warren
and Broadway, but there were nothing but warehouses
there, so we were very much puzzled. When
the little girl came back I thought her heart would
break. The tears rolled down her cheeks, and her
face was hot with fever. O, it was roasting hot! I
was afraid she would be sick. So I said:
“`Sissy, don't cry any more—lie down, and when
you wake up your papa will be here.'
“`Oh, will he come, sure, will he?' sobbed the little
girl
“`Yes, my child,' I said, and then I put her in the
crib. She had a paper of peanuts and seventy cents
in her pocket, which she said her mother gave her.
These I put before her on a chair, and the little thing
soon fell asleep.
“About two o'clock in the
morning,” continued the matron,
“somebody knocked at
the door. I got up and struck
a light, and as I opened it a
man asked—
“`Have you got a little lost
girl here?'
“`Yes, we've got three little
girls here to-night,' I said.
“`But have you got a little
with long golden hair, dressed
in a little red hood and a plaid
shawl?'
“`Yes, just such a one. Come
in and see her.'
“Then,” continued the matron, “I called all the
children up, and he came in. The light shone on the
little girl's face, as she stood there waiting. In a second
the father had her in his arms.
“`How did you get over here, baby?' he cried, as
he held his rough beard against her face. But the
little child only sobbed and clung to him all the more.”
“What was the child's mistake about the street?” I
asked.
“Well, she lived corner of Broadway and Walton
Warren.”
A QUEER CASE.
A while ago a little boy, three and a half years old,
living in Passaic Village, New Jersey, strayed away
from home. He wandered to the railroad, and when
he saw a car stop he thought it would be a nice thing
to take a ride. So he climbed up the steps, got into
the car, and rode to Jersey City. When the car stopped
he wandered on to the ferry-boat with the surging
crowd of passengers, and was soon at the foot of
Courtlandt street, in the great City of New York.
Here he played around a little while in high glee. By
and by, as night came on, he began to be hungry and
to cry for his father and mother. So a kind-hearted
policeman picked him up, took him to the station-house,
and the sergeant sent him to Mrs. Ewing's, at Police
Head-quarters.
As soon as little Johnny was missed at home in
Passaic, the search commenced. Dinner came, and no
Johnny—then supper passed, and the father and mother
began to be frantic. They searched everywhere for
two days and two nights. The big foundry at Passaic
was stopped, and one hundred workmen scoured the
country. Then, as a last resort, his heart-broken father
came to New York. After putting an advertisement
in the Herald, he thought he would go to Police
Headquarters.
Johnny was such a bright little boy that the matron
had taken him out with her shopping on Broadway,
to question her about lost children.
Judge of his astonishment and joy, after fifteen minutes'
waiting, when Johnny came flat upon him with the
matron.
“Why, my little boy!” cried the father, “how did
you get here?” But Johnny was too full of joy to
reply, and when his father went off to the telegraph
office to tell the glad news to his mother, he cried
till his father took him along too, and he wouldn't let
go his father's hand till he got clear back to Passaic,
for fear he would be lost again.
RICH CHILDREN.
“Do you ever have any rich people's children here?”
I asked the matron.
“Yes, frequently. They get lost, shopping with their
mothers on Broadway, and the Broadway Police have
orders not to take the lost children whom they find
to the station house, but to bring them directly here.
And here their fathers and mothers frequently come
after them.”
“What other children get cared for here?” I asked.
“Well, the little Italian harp boys frequently come
here with the police to stay over night, but after they
get a nice warm breakfast, they suddenly remember
where they live, and we let them go. They are very
cute, they are!”
WHAT I SAW.
Yesterday I met in the great, seething Broadway
in the ceaseless ebb and flow of humanity on the corner
of Fourteenth street, just by the statue of Lincoln.
The youngest was a baby in arms, the next was a little
girl prattler of three years, and the eldest, a boy, was,
I should say, five. The little boy held the little baby
tightly, and sobbed as if his swelling heart would break,
while the little girl only looked very sad, without crying.
She wasn't old enough to know that she was
lost. I was so much interested that I watched them
for some minutes to see what they would do, but the
more they walked the more they got lost. Pretty soon
they sat down on the curbstone, and the little girl laid
her head in the little boy's lap, while he continued to
sob. Now quite a crowd collected around them, asking
them all sorts of questions, which they could not
answer. They could not even tell where they lived—
not even the street. In a few moments a policeman
came along and tried to find out where the little things
lived, but the more he questioned them the more
frightened they got.
“Shall I take you to your mother, Johnny?” asked
the policeman, patting the little boy on the cheek; but
Johnny kept on saying as he had said for the last half
hour, “O, I want my ma!”
“Well, Johnny,” said the policeman, “come with
me and we will find ma. We'll go and see her.”
So Johnny took hold of one of the policeman's hands
and his little sister the other, while he carried the
baby in his arms and they all went off down Broadway
to the lost child department to find their mother.
But alas! they did not find her.
After the theater, being down
town, I thought I would run in
and see Mrs. Ewing and the
children. The kind matron had
five lost children asleep in her
cradles and cribs.
“What has become of the
little boy and girl?” I asked.
“Here they are,” she said,
“by the fire waiting patiently.”
And there they were. Johnny
had the little baby asleep in his
arms, and his little sister was
looking on and trying to advise
him what to do. They were
tending the baby like a little
father and mother.
I suppose their parents have
been to get them before this
time, but it is a queer thing that
there are so many people who
have never heard of the “Lost Children's Department,”
and when they lose their children they do not know
where to go to find them. Remember this, parents:
Whenever your child is lost, go straight to your own
police station, and if the child is not there, go to Mrs.
Ewing's rooms at Police Headquarters, on Mulberry
street.
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |