Sixteen Paupers, a Clay-Bed Well, and a Farm Not Fit to Live On
County commissioners tour the county poor farm and find cracked fences, filthy bedding, horses bleeding on barbed wire and water unfit to drink. The old place will be sold, they say — but only if a poor farm is worth having at all.
On last Saturday the board of county commissioners made an official inspection of the county poor farm and the work of its supervision, and from all reports things out there are not in as satisfactory shape as the public might demand if the institution were held up for inspection by those who pay taxes for its support. It is a poor farm in fact as well as in name.
The 160 acres of land comprising this homely retreat for the fallen victims of the "Car of Juggernaut" is unkempt as a potter's field. There is no water, excepting that pumped from a well in a clay bed, and the water here is really unfit for use. The fences are out of repair, the farm lands are not tilled to their full value, the fruit trees are not properly cared for, and the buildings for housing the stock are hardly worthy the name.
The 16 paupers, most of whom have seen days of luxurious thrift, are not pleased with their home, which is a two-story frame building bereft of the dash of paint that primed its walls in its first days. The furniture is racked, the beds are dirty, and the clothing of the men, in many cases, by reason of filth, is unfit for use. There is nothing inviting about the place, not even the menu, served in one greasy course upon a rickety board table covered with oilcloth. On the cover of the porch the shingles have been loosened and blown off by the wind.
Out in the barn lot were three valuable horses torn and bleeding about the legs from contact with barbed wire extravagantly and carelessly strung upon the fences, and to add despair to the picture half a dozen hungry dogs gamboled about the premises.
The conditions complained of are not chargeable to anybody in particular, for it would tax the genius of a Cincinnatus to make anything out of the old ranch. The county commissioners are not satisfied to let things remain as they are, but have expressed it as their opinion that if a poor farm is worth having, it should be made a place of comfort for the inmates, and a pleasure to look upon by the people who own it. The old place will be sold and a new and better one purchased. — Examiner.
“It is a poor farm in fact as well as in name.”
Then, as now, the people with the least power lived in the worst-kept buildings, and it took a formal inspection by elected officials to say so out loud. The commissioners' standard — that a public institution should be a comfort to its inmates and a credit to the taxpayers who own it — is the same argument Newport still has about its shelters, its jail and its subsidized housing. Note who is quoted and who is not: sixteen residents are described in detail, and not one is named.
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