“Furnished without charge to all newspapers, post offices, government officials and agencies of a public character for the dissemination of official news of the United States Government.” “Washington, July 3, 1917. No. 46-Vol. i.” There follows a long editorial[1] which laments the public attention which has centered on the militant campaign, appeals to editors and reporters not to “encourage” us in our peculiar conduct by printing defies to the President of the United States even when “flaunted on a pretty little purple and gold banner” and exhorts the public to control its thrills. The official bulletin concludes with: “It is a fact that there remains in America one man who has known exactly the right attitude to take and maintain toward the pickets. A whimsical smile, slightly puckered at the roots by a sense of the ridiculous, a polite bow—and for the rest a complete ignoring of their existence. He happens to be the man around whom the little whirlwind whirls—the President of the United States.” And finally with an admonition that “the rest’ of the country … take example from him in its emotional reaction to the picket question.” [1] From the Woman Citizen. The Administration pinned its faith on jail—that institution of convenience to the oppressor when he is strong in power and his weapons are effective. When the oppressor miscalculates the strength of the oppressed, jail loses its convenience. Chapter 4 Occoquan Workhouse It is Bastille Day, July fourteenth. Inspiring scenes and tragic sacrifices for liberty come to our minds. Sixteen women march in single file to take their own “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” to the White House gates. It is the middle of a hot afternoon. A thin line of curious spectators is seen in the park opposite the suffrage headquarters. The police assemble from obscure spots; some afoot, others on bicycles. They close in on the women and follow them to the gates. The proud banner is scarcely at the gates when the leader is placed under arrest. Her place is taken by another. She is taken. Another, and still another steps into the breach and is arrested. Meanwhile the crowd grows, attracted to the spot by the presence of the police and the patrol wagon. Applause is heard. There are cries of “shame” for the police, who, I must say, did not always act as if they relished carrying out what they termed “orders from higher up.” An occasional hoot from a small boy served to make the mood of the hostile ones a bit gayer. But for the most part an intense silence fell upon the watchers, as they saw not only younger women, but whitehaired grandmothers hoisted before the public gaze into the crowded patrol, their heads erect, their eyes a little moist and their frail hands holding tightly to the banner until wrested from them by superior brute force.