not quite of the world, and truly no child is of the earth and plain humanity until its absolute innocence and belief have been cankered by the first doubt. We should be pleased, therefore, to listen to the essayist when he touches upon a subject concerned with little children, for we can nearly imagine his treatment. He had read a book of children's tales, and he tells us that with the author thereof he believes in the souls of toys, and goes forth to a delightful demonstration.

See: "For my own part I do not hesitate to formulate my creed. I believe in the immortal soul of Punch. I believe in the majesty of marionettes and dolls. Doubtless there is nothing human according to the flesh in those little personages of wood or cardboard, but there is in them something divine, however little it may be. They do not live as we do, but still they live. They live the life of the immortal gods. . . . For, look you, they are like the lesser idols of antiquity. They bear even a still closer resemblance to those ruder figures by which savages attempt to show the invisible. And what should they be like if not idols, since they are themselves idols? Theirs is an absolutely religious function. They bring to little children the only vision of the divine which would be intelligible to them. They represent all the religion which is accessible to tender years. They are the cause of Chambers's Journal.

our earliest dreams. They inspire our first fears and our first hopes. Pierrot and Punch contain as much divine anthropomorphism as brains, as yet scarce fashioned though terribly active, can conceive. They are the Hermes and the Zeus of our babies. And every doll is to this day a Proserpine, a Cora, for our little girls. I would have these words taken in their most literal sense. Children are born religious. M. Hovelacque and his municipal council do not perceive a god anywhere. Children see them everywhere. Their interpretation of nature is mystic and religious. I will even say that they have more relations with gods than with men, and this proposition will not appear strange if we remember that since the divine is the unknown, the idea of the divine is the first which must engage the attention of growing thought. Since children, then, are born religious, they worship their toys. They ask of their toys what men have always asked of their gods: joy and forgetfulness, the revelation of mysterious harmonies, the secret of being." My bookseller tells me now that he sells more of the works of M. France in both French and English than he does of many English writers of high repute. It is so much to the good for readers. I have few desires so keen as to read the first work that M. France will write after the war is ended.

The work of the "Friends" in France is one of the fair sides of the war; for wherever their gray uniforms pass some scar is healed, some hope is born, and by giving generously of human sympathy they have helped suffering people to forget something of human brutality.

The authentic title of their

organization in France is "La Société des Amis," but it pleases the French people to speak of them in familiar phrase as "Les Quakers," and the average Frenchman's conception of their particular religious creed is delightfully vague and fantastic. The only point on which he is quite clear is the Friends'

claim to be non-combatants by conviction.

In 1870 the Friends came over to France in a small band and worked behind the French armies, distributing food and clothing to impoverished civilians and giving medical aid to all who needed it. Their number was few, but they won golden opinions and did excellent work which has been remembered and recorded. In 1914, inspired by the same desire to help, they sent over another Relief Expedition, based on the same lines as that of 1870. A committee was formed in England and negotiations by means of French intermediaries were begun with the French Government. The Friends offered to send over doctors, nurses, and general helpers to do whatever was possible to relieve the distress among the civil population of the invaded districts. After some weeks of discussion their offer was accepted, and at the same time permission was given to all members of the society to wear the black and crimson star which had been given as a badge to those members of the society who had worked in France forty-four years ago.

The aim of the Friends has always been to work for civilians, and although the course of events has caused them to give help to soldiers in many instances and even to have one of their ambulances working quite near the Front, it is among civilians that the greater part of their work has been done. When they began operations in the autumn of 1914 they were faced with a task that might have dismayed a less brave people, for the country was still trembling from the shock of the German invasion. Refugees were pouring down towards Paris, and in the villages through which the Germans had passed the remaining inhabitants were paralyzed by fear as the result of the brief but brutal occupation by the enemy.

Under the orders of General Azibert the Friends worked behind the 5th French Army, in the cantons of Montmirail, Esternay, and Fère-Champenoise. Their first center was at Esternay, from which point they sent out doctors, nurses, architects, builders, sanitary experts and men-of-all-work to inquire into and remedy whatever ill came within their scope. Destruction, sickness, death, and the direst poverty faced them on all sides, but the worst thing they had to fight against in those days was the haunting fear in the hearts of all those who had suffered, and were still suffering, that the "gray flood" would come again. They had seen the German army in all its arrogant pride sweep across the land, leaving behind it such terrible proofs of its strength that they could not believe it to be irretrievably held in check. The very thought of it paralyzed them, and it was only when this fear was subdued that they found heart to begin life again with the help of the Friends.

Strange tales were told in those early days, and the Friends as they went about among the peasantry, had hard, stern proofs of German brutality. But, like Jane Austen, they "willingly quit such odious subjects as guilt and misery, and are impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort." Therefore, when you talk to the Friends you do not hear much of horrors and atrocities, but you learn a great deal about quiet endurance, self-denial, and the power to "begin again" in the face of disaster. In a little book, "Behind the Battle Lines in France," written for private circulation by Mr. Harvey, one of the Friends, there are many stories which bear witness to the French peasant's fine qualities, and which refute the tradition that he is beyond all things grasping and uncharitable. "Happy is the people that " has such a peasantry," says Mr.

Harvey, and as you read the countless stories of women who have set aside their own safety to promote the security of others, who have given half of their little all to help a neighbor, who have offered to care for orphaned children when already their own quiver was more than full, you are convinced that he is right. It was among such people that the Friends distributed food and clothing in abundance, for it was those things which were greatly needed. At the same time, and with an orderly rapidity that was suggestive of magic, they established centers for medical aid and sent out district nurses; they started their hut-building depots and began to rebuild brick and stone houses out of the old materials. They pervaded the unhappy districts like an army of good genii, and before their unobtrusive way of doing good even the suspicions of this homekeeping peasant people sank to rest.

At the end of December they changed their center from Esternay to FèreChampenoise, where they established a hut-building depot, a provision depot, and, with a staff of doctor and nurses, worked in twenty neighboring communes, distributing relief of all kinds. Their gray motor cars, with the inscription "Mission Anglaise" written on them, went all over the countryside, strictly but kindly watched over by the military authorities, and warmly supported by all civilian officials and private individuals. The practical gray uniforms of both men and women had become familiar features in the landscape, and their wearers were accepted wherever they went as workers of great value.

In the meantime another group of workers had established a maternity hospital at Châlons-sur-Marne, by the request of the Préfet. They were offered the use of a part of the Asile des Vieillards, which stands on the outskirts of the town, and in the name

of the department the Préfet undertook to pay all the domestic charges of the hospital if the Friends would be responsible for the provision of the medical staff and equipment. Under these conditions the hospital was opened, and it has proved a valuable refuge for mothers and children who have come from the devastated districts. It relieved the town hospital, which was greatly strained, and it has proved itself very elastic in its resources, for it goes much further than its title of "maternity" suggests. Added to the maternity wards, it has a crèche and quite a big out-patients' department, run on peculiarly pleasant lines; the consultation days are called "our athome days," and they mean nourishment as well as medicine, and gifts of clothing go with good advice.

The difficulties of beginning the Châlons work were many, and an “Asile,” even at its best, is a depressing institution. It looks and feels like a workhouse of the least prepossessing kind, and the inmates appear to belong to that unhappy fringe of humanity which, for one reason or another, is wanting in wit. In one of the unlovely red-brick blocks of the Châlons Asile the Friends installed themselves last December, and found even in their quarters a remnant of that poor humanity for which the building had been constructed; twenty silent, foolishlooking old women sat doing nothing in a ground-floor room, and formed a mute, indifferent audience to the Friends' activities. They watched the goings and comings, they assisted at all the meals. And although so little comprehending and so harmless, they were grim, uncomfortable guests to have always at the board. Thus, when the Préfet had them removed a sigh of relief went up from all the staff.

A less easily disposed of factor was the dirt of the place, for to make the amateur French domestic staff clean

according to English hospital rules was not an easy thing to do. The cold was another adversary, and the glory of "serving" was dim in the minds of most as they shivered through meals in an icy room and crept along arctic passages to bed. But the day's work was hard enough to make them sleep the heavy sleep of exhaustion until they were called in the gray dawn of another day to begin again.

Many tragic cases have been nursed in the Châlons wards, and it was only with the coming of spring that the Friends began to see wide effects of their winter's work. Women who had come into them almost dead from having given birth to their children in cold, damp cellars; children who were half starved because their mothers had been unable to get food for them; homeless, orphaned babies; mothers who had got separated from their children, were among their many patients, and although they lost a few the majority flourished and grew fat. To such as these the bare wards (clean and dainty after a struggle between the ward maids and the matron) were havens of rest, and between the women who nursed and those who were being nursed a mutual respect had grown up. Both sides avoided any familiarity or undue curiosity, and the matron told me she was immensely impressed by the courage, common sense, and competence of the average French woman of the people. "They are good wives and good mothers, and their simple trust in the Bon Dieu is encouraging to see."

In the crèche on the ground floor life ran to a livelier measure than in the wards, and a certain "Roland" of five or six summers was continually being called to order for leading his elders astray. In the common room, nurses off duty could rest in basket chairs, the only sign of luxury in the hospital, and there visitors were received and Friends

who were passing through the town would come and get a meal. There was a hint of Quaker simplicity in everything, and I could not but think of Charles Lamb when he wrote in his "Quakers' Meeting":

"When the spirit is sore fettered, even tired to sickness of the janglings and nonsense-noises of the world, what a balm and solace it is to go and seat yourself for a quiet half-hour upon some undisputed corner of a bench, among the gentle Quakers. Their garb and stillness conjoined present an uniformity . . . and cleanliness in them is something more than the absence of its contrary."

We know, of course, that many of the Friends who are working in France are not Quakers, but they are all working under the spell of the Quaker spirit, a very healing one to have abroad just now, whatever different convictions one may hold personally.

The reconstruction work of the Society in the different departments of the country rapidly increased as the spring advanced. At Vitry-le-François, where General Joffre had his Headquarters in the worst days of the Marne battle, there is an important depot, and on a beautiful summer's day we visited the little town and saw with what simplicity and effectiveness the Friends carry on their work. They had been allotted a school-house with some surrounding sheds, and there, with their accustomed modesty, they had installed offices, provision depot, carpenters' sheds, and motor garage. About a dozen territorial soldiers were working with them on that particular day, and a wooden house was being made as fast as hands could make it. They showed us plans of the different sizes they were in the habit of making; some had four rooms, some three, and the smallest two. Each had a double roof, with a corrugated iron or tarpaulin covering. The walls are draught

proof, and there are good windows and fireplaces. Compared with many a thatched cottage that I know, these temporary shelters are magnificent, and if, as French people say, it is "Le 'provisoire' qui dure le plus longtemps en France," the Quaker huts are likely to be the homes of those to whom they were given for quite a long time. When a hut is complete in all its separate parts, these parts are loaded on to one of the Friends' motor lorries and carted off to the place for which the hut is destined. There the Friends put it up and leave it in the hands of those whose business it is to furnish it. Up to August, 1915, 230 huts and houses have been built and repaired in different villages of the Marne, the Aisne, and the Meuse, and, encouraged by this constructive work of the Friends, the inhabitants themselves have put up and repaired many more out of old materials. In this way a friendly and wholesome spirit of rivalry has grown up between the Friendly builders and the natives, which acts as a spur to all. One Frenchman scored a great triumph over the English workers when he announced that his house had a parquet floor, which was more than any of the Friends could boast. And no one was more delighted than the Friends when they heard the news; for, with all their generosity and love of charitableness, they know that there is no help like that which comes from the people themselves to promote a lasting cure for the misfortunes which have fallen on them and on their land.

Perfect good feeling exists between the English Mission and the French authorities; the Church, the State, and the Army work hand in hand with it, and although the restrictions as to the movements of the Friendly members are necessarily severe, they have not hampered the work in any serious

serious, the Friends have done most excellent work. Before the war, Sermaize was a smiling little town known as Sermaize-les-Bains; it had 4000 inhabitants and about 1000 houses. After the German occupation only 200 houses were left standing, and the inhabitants who remained were stricken with fear and threatened with starvation and disease. It was in this state that the Friends found the town and its people; now it has been restored to health and comparative prosperity. The sanitary experts have cleansed the wells and the drains, the builders have restored a certain number of houses, the doctors and nurses have established a hospital in a part of the neglected thermal establishment, and in another part of the building they run a little maternity school. The agricultural members of the society have cultivated a small farm from which they can supply vegetables for the family pot-au-feu. Moreover, food and clothing, furniture, and household linen have been distributed widely. The work has not been easy in spite of the courageous way in which the peasants themselves seconded the Friends, and the authorities and richer members of the population supported their efforts; because no sooner was one evil mastered than another grew up in its place. Thus, as soon as the town seemed fairly on the way to health and comfort, summer came and brought with it dangerous flies. "And," said a Quaker lady to me, "would you believe it, there was not a meat safe in Sermaize." With fairy godmother-like celerity, the Friends ordered meat safes by the score, and "of all the gifts they have had given them," resumed the Quaker lady, "the housewives seemed to appreciate these gardes-manger the most." For many miles round Sermaize the peasants come for medical and material relief, and other working centers are now established at Maurupt, Fontenelle,