#parole system

“Paroled At Reformatory Now Makes $12,000 A Year,” Toronto Star. March 16, 1932. Page 1 & 9. ---- Youths Not Criminals, Says T. D. Bell - Can’t Drive Stolen Cars ---- RECLAIM 4 OUT OF 5 ---- By ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN Most of the young men in Ontario’s reformatories and industrial institutions are not criminals. It is a case of misdirected energy. Eighty per cent of them make good on parole. About 900 are now holding down good jobs. Good luck to them. 

We got this straight from the man who has one of the toughest jobs on record - T. D. Bell, acting chief officer and secretary of the parole board. His job may be tough, but he likes it. He wars on old-time prejudice and prison stigma. He’s giving them the bums’ rush.

He’’s got to take the laddie who slipped realize he’s not a criminal. He meets him on his own ground and offers the glad hand. No religious chatter. No high-hat. It’s a job they want. And ‘thanks, old timer - you’re a white guy,’ is usually the result. Less than 20 per cent. break faith.

Mr. bells directs the works from his own in Queen’s Park. We called. He wasn’t broadcasting. But we were interested - so, he was nice enough to open up. Ten minutes late we knew why he was getting results. He was human.

Job Is First Thing First he explained how the parole board works. Here you are - statistics and everything.

When half a man’s definite term is served, he automatically comes before the board. They have his history from the time he was born. If the board think he’s okay and deserves a break, his parole is approved. But he must serve his full definite term, less five days per month for good behavior. Parole takes effect during the indeterminate sentence. A job’s waiting for him - it’s got to be waiting for him or he can’t be paroled. No unemployment allowed. Eight hundred and fifty were paroled last year. Figure that out in these nice jobby days.

All right. The man’s got a job and has his liberty. What then? Well, he’s still serving sentence in the eyes of the law. Breach of parole can send him to the penitentiary, or back to the reformatory. But the lad is trying - hard. He must send a report, signed by his employer, or other responsible person to the board the first of every month.

Is his employer told the man he is employing is on parole. Not necessarily. Can he change his job his own? He is not supposed to, but the board uses savvy. If he reports the change, it is usually accepted. Do some of the lads get away with a lot of things they shouldn’t? They do. The board hasn’t a regiment to look after all personally.

Extra Mural System Another system by which a man is let out of an institution is extramural, used when his family is in distress. About 325 last year. He can work. But he hasn’t the liberty a parole man has. He can’t leave the municipality to which he is assigned. But, then he’s still serving definite sentence. He has a deputy custodian. And he has to be in by eight every night. Perhaps sleep in the local jail. Only about 4 per cent. of the 2,000 in the last ten years let the board down.

There you have the two systems. Parole is the reclaimer - the character builder. Two thousand one hundred were up before the board last year. About 65 per cent. of the Ontario Reformatory are placed on parole. About 80 or 90 are paroled every month. Fine. It looks swell on paper - but get off the line and let’s hear what Mr. Bell has to say. Here goes:

‘You’ve got to get them thinking right - get their gratitude,’ he says. ‘They must look at it in this light - ‘Here’s a man who’s getting us a job - got us a job - somebody must be taking an interest in us after all.’‘

‘Yeh - but what about the scoffers - the hard guys?’ ‘They amount to only about one or two per cent. They’re the the that figure they’ve been sentenced for this or that and they’ll pay the price. They don’t want to be helped.’

Some Won’t Respond ‘You say about 2,100 came before the board last year and only some 850 were paroled - what about those that weren’t paroled?’ ‘some of those didn't want parole. Tried it before, perhaps, and were afraid they couldn’t make good. And the one we couldn’t find jobs for.’ ‘Well, what about these hard guys - don’t they spread a lot of adverse propaganda in the jail about parole?’ ‘Nothing to worry about. Those who have had parole know.’

‘What about the lad who doesn’t want, or get parole when he gets out. Anybody look after him?’ ‘Yes - the social service people are trying to do something - but they have no hold over them. They’ve served their sentence.’

He shoved a letter over to us. It was a letter of gratitude. ‘He’s now a manager of a firm - a brilliant chap.’ ‘Any others?’ ‘Lots - off-hand, one drawing $12,000 a year.’ Makes you think, eh?

Misdirected Energy And then came the human stuff. We knew it was there.

‘You know, I don’t know what’s the matter with these young people nowadays.’ We waited. ‘I think it’s misdirected energy. Too anxious to get ahead. Can’t wait. So, try to take a short cut. And there you are.’

‘They’re not criminals?’ This brought a flash. ‘That’s he one thing we got to get out of their mind - they’re not!’ Then - ‘It’s funny - back about 1905, when I was on the staff at Manitoba penitentiary, prisoners were all old men - now they’re all young.’

‘Why’s that?’ ‘I don’t know - but some of these chaps haven’t done as much as you or I to deserve being in jail.’ Something like this had struck us before. ‘And most of the ‘fellows who steal cars can’t drive them. I went out with one of these chaps once and we would have been in the ditch if I hadn’t taken the wheel.’

It Might Be You He swung suddenly in his chair and pointed to a pile of folders. ‘There are 250 first offenders coming in. What have most of them done to get in jail? A couple stole some turkeys for a turkey roast.’

A reminiscent smile crept across his face. ‘I’ve done the same thing - only it was melons.’ The smile broadened. ‘Then I hit my teacher over the head with a hockey stick. Laid him out for four hours. He accused me of lying. I don’t lie. That would be assault nowadays.’

We nodded gravely. ‘Yes - it would.’ Among other things.

‘Do you know the only difference between some of these fellows and you or I?’ ‘What?’ We’d been afraid of this all along.

“Prison sans barreaux,” Le Soleil. October 8, 1960. Perspectives Magazine, Vol. 2, No. 41. Pages 18-21. ---    Au Camp de pré-libération de Valleyfield, on fait confiance aux détenus et la porte reste ouverte --- Textes et photos d’Alain Stanké --- QUAND, en février 1959, les citoyens de Valleyfield ont appris que le ministère de la Justice allait ouvrir une “succursale" du pénitencier de Saint- Vincent-de-Paul dans leur ville, ils ont manifesté fort peu d’enthousiasme. Dans une industrie voisine de l’emplacement prévu, les femmes des employés ont prétendu que travailler dans les parages d'une prison — et sur ­tout d'une prison dont les portes resteraient ou ­vertes — était risqué, sinon dangereux. Voilà pourtant un an et demi qu’existe le Camp de pré-libération et il n’est pas encore survenu d’incidents fâcheux à cause d’un seul détenu! Cette “prison sans barreaux" était la première institution du genre au Canada. Devant le succès de l'expérience de Valleyfield, le ministère a organisé un autre camp du même genre à William’s Head, en Colombie britannique, et les autorités laissent entendre que d’autres camps analogues seront bientôt inaugurés à travers le pays. Autour de celui de Valleyfield. il y a une clô­ture, qui ne sert cependant qu’à éloigner les visi­teurs importuns, assure M. Michel LeCorre, l’instigateur de la création du camp. Aucun garde ne la surveille. D’ailleurs, les gardes ne sont jamais armés dans l’enceinte du camp; les détenus n’ose­ raient pas violer le code d’honneur qu’ils ont accepté de respecter. Dès l’arrivée d’un nouveau pensionnaire, le directeur, M. René Lalonde, lui fait toujours re ­marquer que “au-dessus et au-dessous de la clôture, il y a du fil de fer barbelé. Si vous projetez de vous évader, empruntez donc de préférence la porte principale, qui est toujours ouverte. Ne ris ­ quez pas inutilement de déchirer vos vête­ments ...” A Valleyfield, la règle repose sur la confiance mutuelle. "Voilà le secret de notre succès,” note le major Grégoire Surprenant, assistant-directeur du pénitencier de Saint-Vincent-de-Paul. “On peut dire que plus de 95 p.c. de nos détenus ont bon coeur. Ils feraient l'impossible pour rendre service, à condition qu’on le leur demande. Malheureuse ­ment, personne dans leur vie ne leur avait jamais rien demandé . . .” "Dans notre camp, nous faisons confiance aux détenus. Une confiance entière. La chose est d’autant plus possible qu’ils sont peu nombreux: il n’y en a jamais plus de 100, que surveillent 50 gardes. C'est dans un climat de responsabilité et d'initiative per sonnelle que ces hommes préparent leur retour dans la société. Des 258 prisonniers sortis de ce camp, seulement 12 p.c. ont récidivé.” Il n'y a pas de cachot à Valleyfield et on n'y impose pas de sanction. Les détenus savent qu'une seule preuve d'indiscipline leur vaudra automatiquement l'unique châtiment: le retour au “pen” de Saint-Vincent-de-Paul. Ils sont d'ailleurs si fiers de la confiance qu'on met en eux qu'ils font tout leur possible pour prouver qu'ils la méritent. 

Depuis l'ouverture du camp, on n'a enregistré qu'une seule évasion. Capturé deux heures plus tard, le fuyard a sup­plié les autorités qu'on le ramène à Saint-Vincent-de-Paul. “Si je retournais auprès de mes compagnons de Valleyfield, ils me tueraient!" a-t-il expliqué. 

Cet homme avait trahi la confiante qu'on avait mise en lui. Il savait que ses compagnons de détention ne lui pardon ­neraient pas son geste. Son témoignage prouve bien l'existence d'une sorte d'entente tacite chez.les détenus. Les pensionnaires de Valleyfield sont choisis d'après la nature de leur infraction et de leur bonne conduite au péniten­cier. “Encore faut-il, ajoute le major Surprenant, que cette bonne conduite n'ait pas pour seul motif le désir d'être libérés au plus tôt afin de récidiver.”

Les détenus coupables de violences ou de tentatives d’évasion sont au ­ tomatiquement éliminés de la liste des candidats. Le prisonnier n’est d'ailleurs jugé digne du transfert que si l'aumônier, le médecin, le psychiatre, le psychologue, l’instituteur, le responsable des loisirs et les gardes ont remarqué chez lui une volonté sincère de se réhabiliter.

En général, au pénitencier, le détenu passe près de 17 heures par jour dans sa cellule, où il dort et prend ses repas. A sa libération, il trouve souvent difficile de se réadapter à un régime de vie normal. Il risque de ne plus pouvoir fournir une pleine journée de travail. Valleyfield sera donc pour lui une étape intermédiaire entre le bagne et la liberté. A Valleyfield, on prend ses repas en commun, on dort en commun dans un immense dortoir et on passe ses soirées en commun à des activités qui développent chez le prisonnier l'esprit d’initiative. Les autorités s’efforcent sur tout de le réhabituer au rythme de vie qu'il devra suivre, une fois libéré. 

Dès son arrivée au camp, il perd son numéro matricule. Il redevient un “homme”, que ses compagnons et les gardes n'appellent plus que par son nom propre. On l’occupe à des travaux divers: cueillette des légumes, préparation des repas, entretien des bâti ­ ments, réparation de boîtes postales pour le compte du ministère des Postes, fabrication de lits pour les prisons, rembourrage, couture ou réparation d’autos. Il n’y a jamais deux spécialistes d’un même métier, de sorte que les détenus sont forcés de manifester une plus grande initiative personnelle. Aux repas, on mange autant qu’on le désire, mais tous sont avertis que, s'ils s'empiffrent, la table sera moins bien garnie le len­ demain. 

Quand ils reçoivent des visiteurs (une fois par mois), les prisonniers ne se rendent pas dans une salle commune et parlent sans la surveillance d'un garde Ils se promènent, bras dessus bras dessous, avec leur femme dans le jardin du camp ou bavardent sur une banquette, à l’ombre d'un arbre.

Ici, pas de murs froids, pas d’odeur de renfermé. Par les fenêtres du dortoir, on entend chanter les oiseaux et, près de son lit. le détenu a une berceuse à sa disposition. Sur les murs, les plus habiles ont dessiné des animaux ou des paysages. Sur les tables de chevet, presque ou pas de photos de pin-up. Elles ont fait place aux portraits de la famille, de l’épouse, du bébé qui doit avoir tellement changé depuis . . .

Ici, pas de regards atones; pas d'hommes hagards, le visage rongé de haine; pas de mise débraillée. Les pensionnaires sont en bonne santé, souriants et sympathiques. Quand on les questionne sur leurs délits, ils ne répondent pas comme ceux du "pen”, qui vous ré pliquent, chaque fois; ‘‘Moi, c’est une erreur judiciaire ... ”

SYMPATHIQUE, ce Yvon P ......... devenu pâtissier du camp et qui sera libéré dans six mois. “ Moi, c'est idiot, dit-il, un peu gêné. Vous savez, les 25 autos américaines volées à Trois-Rivières? ... Eh bien, c’était moi." Et, le sourire aux lèvres, comme s'il se moquait un peu de lui-même, le jeune homme ajoute: “Mais c’est bel et bien fini, ces folies-là!” 

Sympathique aussi, ce “Lucky" L. . . . qui, malgré son prénom, n'a guère été chan ceux dans le passé. Il doit purger deux ans de  prison pour extorsion de fonds. Un gaillard costaud, une vraie armoire à glace! Pendant que les autres s'attablent, il relit la dernière lettre qu'il a reçue de sa femme. Aujourd'hui, il n'a pas faim et pour cause ... Il s’en va demain! Il a passé neuf mois à Valleyfield. C'est un homme nouveau. 

Lucky a fait un premier séjour derrière les barreaux, en 1946. pour avoir tué un matelot. “ Cetait plus ou moins de ma faute, avoue-t-il. Une sorte d'accident ... Je revenais de la guerre, on a bu et un gars m'a traité de "pigeon". Je lui ai flanqué un coup de poing et il est allé se fendre la tête sur le trottoir. A quatre heures du matin, la police  est venue me réveiller pour me dire qu’il était mort. On m'a libéré provisoirement, sous caution, mais, “pas fin", je n’ai pas comparu à mon procès et j'ai été automatiquement condamné à deux ans de prison.” 

— Y pensez-vous parfois à ce gars sur le trottoir? — Tu parles! Depuis, je suis l'homme le plus paisible du monde. Sympathique encore et attachant, ce détenu de 74 ans qui se plaint de maux d'estomac qu’on n'arrive pas à guérir, semble-t-il. “Ça se comprend, d'expliquer le major Surprenant. Il doit être libéré bientôt et la perspective du retour à la vie normale lui fait peur.” 

Notre vieux détenu a le trac. II fait partie de ceux qui ne veulent plus quitter la prison parce qu ’ ils se sentent trop vieux et trop seuls pour affronter de nouveau la vie incertaine d'un monde où il n'y a plus d'horaire et plus de gardes.   Photo captions: 1)  Voici rentrée principale du Camp de pré-libération de Valleyfield. La porte de l’immeuble de droite reste toujours ouverte, de même que ia grille d'entrée. L’homme au dehors est un pensionnaire qui rentre sans trop se faire prier.

2) Deux prisonniers réparent le fer d’une pioche, dans un atelier du camp, avec le même zèle qu’auraient des ouvriers libres.

3) M. Michel LeCorre a été l'instigateur et le premier directeur du nouveau camp.

4) Avec ses gravures et ses photos aux murs, le dortoir (à gauche) rappelle plutôt un collège qu'une prison. Les fenêtres ont des carreaux mais pas de barreaux! Si celles du réfectoire (à droite) sont si élevées, ce n’est pas pour décourager les évasions  mais pour mieux éclairer la salle.

"GET GOOD RESULTS FROM PAROLE PLAN," Toronto Star. September 16, 1933. Page 17. --- Helps Men Re-establish Themselves, T. B. Bell Tells Committee ---- At a meeting of the criminology committee of the Social Service Council of Canada, held this afternoon, an address was given by T. B. Bell, Chairman of the Parole Board of Ontario, who said fine results were given by the parole system and it gave men who have been prison inmates a real opportunity of re-establishing themselves.

Following this address, the committee resolved that W. F. Nickle, K.C., and W. M. Nickle, K.C., of Kingston, should give an address in the near future on conditions as they exist in the Kingston penitentiary. Both these gentlemen have been closely in touch with the recent investigation of the prison riots. This meeting will be held Thursday afternoon next, at 2 o'clock.

"Crown Not Prosecuting," Border Cities Star. May 9, 1934. Page 7. --- Lord's Day Act Cases Up to Municipality, Says Mr. Allan --- Trials Postponed ---- Parole Breaker Asks For Hearing at Place Where He Was Sent Up --- Before Magistrate Brodie laid over until next week hearing of the charges of operating on Sunday brought against six Windsor factories, in police court today, Crown Attorney James S. Allan announced he is in possession of definite instructions from the late Edward C. Bayly, K.C., deputy attorney-general, in connection with prosecutions under the Lord's Day Act. These, he said, are purely a matter for the attention of the local municipality and the Crown has no connection with the prosecutions.

SIX FIRMS AGREE All six firms were represented in court and agreed to the postponement. They are: the Windsor Bedding Company, Limited; the Canadian Containers Company, Limited; L. A. Young Industries, Limited; Bryant Pattern Manufacturing Company, Limited; Kelsey Wheel Company, Limited, and Auto Specialties Company, Limited.

His Worship explained to Walter Anderson that his request for a trial in the city where he broke his parole would have to be considered by the Attorney-General's Department, with little reason for expecting it it to be granted. Anderson elected a jury trial on the charge of breach of parole. He was arrested as a vagrant in Windsor.

Assistant Parole Officer E. J. Hetherington testified that Anderson was convicted of forgery in Toronto in 1932, sentenced to three months definite and nine months indeterminate in Guelph Reformatory and paroled after about four months. He reported to the parole officer three times, it was stated, and then disappeared.

"I learned a lesson from the time I spent in Guelph," Anderson declared. "But the hours were too long at the hotel in Niagara Falls where I was working and d I I set out for another job in Toronto. I was afraid they might send me back to Guelph because I didn't tell them I was going, so I did not report.

GETS BENEFIT OF DOUBT The proverbial "benefit of the doubt" was extended to Clarence Cosgrove, 20, in a charge of stealing automobile tires from a trailer at the Kennedy Collegiate Stadium. Mrs. Margaret Cosgrove, his mother, told the court Clarence could not have taken the tires, since she knew his every movement during the period in which the theft occurred.

"Clarence was never in any trouble," she asserted stoutly. "His younger brother runs around with a bad lot. He told me the other boys took two tires, not these, and drove a car away some time ago. It might have been them, but not this boy. Two of the lads my younger son runs with have gone away on the freights and no one knows where they are."

Board of Education employes identified the tires, and W. Lecroix, from whom Cosgrove bought his car a few days before the thefts, declared the allegedly stolen property was not part of the equipment sold. The tires on the car at that time, he declared, were worn almost to the cord. Accused claimed he had noticed no change in the tires.

"Do you mean you bought a car without looking at the tires?" inquired the bench. "I thought the car was worth five dollars without tires at all," Cosgrove explained.

"Although the repatriation of the licensing system following the end of transportation seems to have been, at least in part, an unthinking policy reflex, as the system persisted through the nineteenth century, it appears to have offered three distinct advantages to the authorities.

First, it reduced costs to the extent that it made the convict prison system more affordable. At between £32 and £42 a year, the average cost per convict was remarkably stable between 1856 and 1914. This cost approximately doubled in the wake of World War I, but it was only in the 1930s – a time when the convict population was much smaller – that it rose significantly. After the prison closures of the inter-war period, the cost was, on average, £140 per convict. The total cost of the system was, of course, affected by the number of people consigned to convict prisons. Although there were fluctuations in numbers and therefore costs, the system as a whole was expensive. Between 1856 and 1940, the average cost of the convict prison system was £218,000 per year. By the start of World War II, the cost of the overall system was still £240,000 per year, not far off from the £226,000 it had cost to run in 1856. In the post-World War II period, the cost rose steeply once more. The prison system has always been (and continues to be) very expensive. However, its costs were considerably lightened by the licensing system. Without a licensing system, the average daily prison population would have increased by one-quarter to one-third, as would the financial costs of running the convict prisons.

The licensing system operated like a pressure valve that made the convict prison system manageable and able to operate at a much-reduced cost. Between 1870 and 1885, when the long stretches handed to people sentenced under habitual offender legislation inflated the convict population, the licensing system saved the authorities close to one million pounds. After 1882, convict establishments largely became net exporters of prisoners, and the licensing system continued to save a considerable annual sum for the prison estate. The proportion of a penal servitude sentence that needed to be served before release on licence was formalized in 1853, long before the prison crises of the next three decades, but the impact of reducing the number of licences granted between 1856 and 1859, and the concomitant rise in the prison population, must have been a lesson for the authorities. The system could be viewed as an elegant mechanism for the authorities, allowing them to reduce costs whenever the system became bloated with convicts by releasing more and more men and women on licence. The system had not been conceived as a cost-saving device, but it was quite evidently operated in that way, making the convict prison system as a whole financially viable.

Second, the promise of a licence being dangled over prisoners’ heads helped to keep order inside the prisons. In Walls Have Mouths, former convict McCartney wrote that ‘a good prison record means that the convict is at the beck and call of every jailer in the prison, that he has to suffer every indignity and injustice in silence, that he cannot associate himself with any complaints, and that he has to do whatever is convenient to the warders, otherwise he gets a bad report, and that report may militate against him to the extent of an extra five years in prison’. The explicit and implicit threat of the loss of remission was one way of keeping discipline in a prison, especially as it would have inculcated self-government among convicts.

Lastly, the licensing system allowed the prison authorities to put right obvious errors that might have undermined the legitimacy of the criminal justice system. This was especially important – or, indeed, may have only been important – when glaring miscarriages of justice attracted attention from the media or from politicians. For example, George Whitehood and Charles Holden were charged with the arson of three haystacks at Hayes on 25 October 1869. In court, Holden stated that ‘he would rather be in prison than not, walking about with nothing to eat’, and he received a ten-year sentence at the Old Bailey on 22 November 1869. Whitehood, however, who may well have been in the same state of poverty, desperation, and disillusionment as Holden, had difficulty proving that he had been anywhere near the crime scene. He had only been liberated from Wandsworth Prison at 9.30 a.m. on the day of the fire and could not possibly have walked to Hayes (a five-hour journey) by the time the fire was started (just after midday). The judge at the Central Criminal Court believed Whitehood had confessed to the crime in order to be transported – if Western Australia was no longer an option, perhaps he was thinking of Gibraltar (where penal servitude continued until 1875), although the judge seems to have been unclear about the options. Whitehood’s case was taken up by the governor of Brixton Prison and the Home Office, who were on firmer footing in correcting the error through the licensing system. Whitehood, having served less than a year of his ten-year sentence, was given a licence in 1870. ‘If he commits another offence it will subject him to imprisonment in, and not removal from this country,’ stated the governor. Whitehood never reoffended, but without the intervention of the prison authorities he would have served another six years in prison before becoming eligible for release on licence. It should be noted that Whitehood’s case had been taken up by MPs in the House of Commons, no doubt putting pressure on the Home Office to act. The number of highly visible cases were few, and therefore one assumes that the number of ‘corrections by licence’ were similarly few.

For most people on licence, it served one very real and valuable purpose: it got them out. As the outpouring of emotion at the beginning of this chapter from people about to be released from prison attests, this purpose should not be underestimated. However, there was not much support with regard to rehabilitation while on licence, and, indeed, there were many barriers to reformation that the system itself put in the way of anyone attempting to ‘go straight’. The authorities were more than aware of the stigma attached to those who had been in prison. The Penal Servitude Acts Commission of 1863 reported that it was ‘far from confident that persons in this condition would find it easy to obtain an honest livelihood. Men with characters branded by their having been convicts are exposed to insuperable disadvantage, in the strong competition for employment.’ This issue was also a topic of considerable discussion by the Kimberley Commission fifteen years later. Several ex-convict witnesses who gave evidence objected to police supervision on the grounds that police officers informed their employers of their status as ex-prisoners and this resulted in the termination of their contracts. Representatives of the Royal Discharged Prisoners Aid Society also put forward a few examples in which this had been the case. A number of male and female convicts in our study also claimed to have experienced this problem. The commission recommended improving the system of supervision in this regard, arguing in line with the 1863 commission that

no time should be lost … in improving the present system. We fear that supervision, if left in the hands of ordinary police constables ... will tend more and more to become a mere matter of mere routine, harassing to the men who are subjected to it, and affording no real security to society against the criminal classes.

However, the licensing system did reduce the period in custody and thereby gave people more time to do the ordinary things that other Victorians and Edwardians did: form relationships, marry, settle down, and have children; find work and build a career or at least have a steady form of income; build relationships and put down roots in a neighbourhood after establishing a secure and stable residence; and take responsibility for one’s own actions, rather than being told what to do and when to do it. All of this helped to build maturity and foster self-reliance and responsibility. These structural factors operating at the individual level encouraged rehabilitation and desistence from offending, but they took time – time that was given back to convicts through the granting of a licence. Although it offered significant financial and operational benefits to the convict prison system, the licensing system was of no intrinsic value to individual convicts, except as a temporal window that allowed more supportive processes to get to work beyond the prison gates."

"Ontario Reformatory." Toronto Globe. February 12, 1913. Page 9. --- On the adjournment of the debate by, Mr. Rowell the House went into committee on Mr. Hanna's bill respecting the Ontario Reformatory. The Provincial Secretary explained the outstanding features of the measure, laying particular stress upon the introduction of the indeterminate sentence for offences against any act of the Legislature, While it had been irregularly worked under the parole system, yet he thought the time had arrived when it should be put on the statute books of the Province. Before the present Dominion Parliament concluded its sittings he thought similar legislation would be passed applicable to offences coming under the criminal code.

Mr. Hanna defended the parole system, and pointed out its advantages from a purely economic standpoint. The prisoner who presented a good record at the time of his discharge was allowed $2.00 per month to take home to his family. The knowledge of this had acted as an incentive in many cases to a man to earn his parole and relieve the Government of the cost of his maintenance.

To Mr. Rowell, Mr. Hanna said that in nine cases out of ten the Minister of Justice acted on the recommendation of the parole board. No outside influence stood between the prisoner and the board.

Mr. Rowell suggested that some provision might be made for the payment of a wage to prisoners, which could be remitted to the wife and family of the prisoner to help support them. Besides the financial benefits which would accrue to the wives and families the wage or compensatlon would also inspire the prisoner to hard work in the hope of shortening his period of Incarceration.

Sir James Whitney said that this matter and the matter of some legal provision whereby the earnings of wife-deserters and wife-beaters could be so applied as to directly aid the families of such delinquents were under consideration by the Government.

Sam Clarke (West Northumberland) said he wished to impress it upon the Provincial Secretary that this scheme, besides providing for financial benefits to the wives and children, would act as an Incentive to the prisoners to work hard and thus be themselves responsible for their early freedom.

"PRISON TRAINING VALUABLE ASSET FOR MANY JOBS," Toronto Star. November 19, 1943. Page 19. --- Nearly 800 prisoners have been paroled from Ontario and federal institutions in the past six months to engage in agriculture or war work, and with few exceptions they are setting an enviable record. This was reported today by C. F. Neelands, deputy provincial secretary.

Additional scores of men and women whose lives have been warped by crime, and who are still In institutions, have turned whole- heartedly to the patriotic tasks of bond buying, blood donations and other volunteer work for the armed forces.

"Many paroled men have risen to executive positions in war industries, have become useful and admirable citizens, and are living up to all the conditions on which they were released," Mr. Neelands said. "Parole revocations have dropped to an all-time low."

One paroled prisoner worked industriously in a war industry, saved his money, and a few weeks ago bought a farm.

"He has stocked it well, is doing fine, and making a valuable contribution to the food supply of the nation," said C. F. Swayze, secretary to the chief officer of the board of parole.

Many young men have been paroled to enter the army, Mr. Swayze told of one transferred from the army to the R.C.A.F., trained as a pilot, and is now overseas where he has already made a name for himself as a gallant and successful airman.

"I know of many others who have done splendidly in industry and in the army, but I hesitate to cite their cases because they could be so easily identified," Mr. Swayze said.

Big Aid to Industry The reformatory at Guelph in particular has made a large contribution to industry, the training the men receive in the institution's shops being valuable assets in war work.

Prisoners at Burwash reformatory are being used to get out a large cut of lumber which is being used by war industries. A considerable number of men have been paroled from Burwash to work in the Northern Ontario lumber camps this winter, putting to practical use the experience they gained while prisoners.

Many ticket-of-leave men from Portsmouth penitentiary, with the trades they have learned in the institution, are going directly into well paid war jobs. One of the largest industries making tanks will take every man the penitentiary's shops can graduate in welding, and the record of successful parolees in this trade is unusually high.

Prisoners in the various institutions are among the large donors of blood, and at Portsmouth penitentiary more than two-thirds of the inmates regularly contribute their quota to the Kingston Red Cross blood clinic. Most of the remaining third have volunteered but are prevented from donating blood for medical or other reasons beyond their control