" Belletonte, Pa., November 30, 1917 AMERICA TO FRANCE. Take them, O beautiful France, Close to your generous breast; Keep, them, my dear dead sons, Honored, beloved, at rest. Under your glorious flag, Under your red, white And blue, Near to your gallant boys, Bury my laddies, too. France, there are tears in our hearts; Bravely we bite back our pain, Preudly we try to smile Over our children slain; Over the soldiers we bore, Over our bravest and best, Over our loved and lost— Lo, we will stand the test! Sister and comrade and friend, Lift up your heart and your head; Mothers of men are we, Mothers of noble dead! Liberty, Justice, and Right; These are the price of their blood, Shed on your sacred soil— Glorious, gallant flood! Steadfast I come to your aid. Steadfast, I stand by your side, There where our heroes fell, There where our great sons died. Take them, then, beautiful France, Close to your generous breast; Keep them, my dear dead boys, Honored, beloved, at rest. —W, E. P. FRENCH, Major, U. S. A. STRAIGHT FROM HEADQUAR- TERS. : It was at Seventy-second Street that Frances was convinced, beyond the necessity of any further specula- tion, that sooner or later the young man was going to speak to her. His oblique glances were rapidly becom- ing more portentous and his restless- ness was becoming more acute; in- deed, as he assembled the elusive fragments of his courage, he positive- ly squirmed in his seat. As to his outward appearance, he was passably good-looking, and he was dressed neatly enough without being exactly what you would call well-groomed. His clothes lacked the final snap of exclusive tailoring, and the wearer himself lacked the final coat of social varnish. It was at Seventy-third street that he leaped out into the aisle, and smiled in a manner which she held to be both ingratiating and importunate. He had raised one hand to the brim of his hat, so» that his arm was crooked uncomfortably; and as he bent side- wise he was jolted by the vibration of the car into curiously awkward pos- tures, from which he recovered still more awkwardly. His eyes were brightening and the color was creep- ing up into his cheeks. “Excuse me,” he said in a breath- less undertone, “but I'm a stranger here—you aren’t, are you?” She regarded him with a half-hu- morous, half-contemptuous cynicism which, in many similar cases, had proved highly effective. “No,” she responded, in her cold, sweet, throaty voice, entirely without accent. The frigidity of it, in itself an ultimatum, had almost without exception served her purpose in the past. This man, however, was imper- vious to the rebuff. “Are you going up very far?” he persisted. Frances surveyed him deliberately. “How,” she asked -crushingly, “does that concern you?” The young man winced, and clutch- ed his hat brim more firmly. “Oh!” he said, abashed. “Ever since I got here I've been anxious to ...” But at this juncture Frances turned squarely away from him and gave her attention to the park. Her dignity and the consciousness of her position wouldn’t permit her to re- treat; her diagnosis was that the young man, parried both by word and by deed, would vanish at the nearest corner. ; The young man rose, and stood swaying to the motion of the ’bus. “I'm sorry,” he said. “But nobody’s insulted you. All I wanted was to find out if you could tell me when we go by the Vrylings’ house. It’s some- where on Riverside Drive. I thought you might know it. I’ve forgotten the number. I guess I’d better get off and hunt up a directory. He bowed, and with his head high and his shoulders stiffened he took a lurching step or two toward the stair- way. Instinctively Frances reversed her earlier judgment, for the sincerity of the young man was suddenly unmis- takable. Her impulses were prompt and generous; she perceived that his strange contortions and the play of his features might conceivably have been nothing more than expressions of his youthful confusion and rustici- ty, and her nature impelled her to make amend for her misjudgment as soon as possible. She was inherently mercurial, her amends were often as extreme as the bursts which caused them. “Wait a moment!” she commanded imperiously. “I don’t propose to bother you,” he said, and touched his hat again and took another step. “I may have misunderstood you; if I did, I beg your pardon. What was it you wanted to know ?” This was mere subterfuge, design- ed to render her apology more expan- sive. She had clearly heard what in- formation he was seeking, but she wanted to hear it again in order that she might double her graciousness. “Thank you,” acknowledged the young man, and as another proof of his artlessness he eased himself into the seat behind her, instead of seizing his opportunity. “You see, we've heard so much about the Vrylings over there, I thought I'd like to go past the house.” “Over where?” She was beginning to realize that he was infinitely younger than she had supposed; he was hardly more than a boy. His air of semi-maturity and his slightly roughened complexion had totally de- ceived her; and now that he had ceas- ed to impress her as a provincial flirt she saw that he was fundamentally - i : : ; : : ! 3 : x | grave and suggestive of grave re- i lytical, and also kind; she had sur-: There was an interval of incommu- all soft illusions. And as Frances, i i That’s all.” te sponsibilities. “France,” said the young man, al- most in apology. “I was over there with the Canadians.” This time her interest was involun- tary. She herself was a member of the committees and a laborer for the good of the universe. “Really? Whereabouts?” “Most everywhere. two years of it.” Frances regarded him incredulous- ly. It was her first encounter with an enlisted man from the front, and she was illogically thrilled. “Is that so?” The young man nodded. “And these Vrylings in New York have sent so much stuff over to the boys. Of course, bales of other peo- ple have sent things, but I happened to get three different kits from the Vrylings in two years, so—” “Then you're going to call there? Surely you are! And what an adven- ture!” : “Why, I haven’t made up my mind about that yet,” said the young man, ruminating. “You see it’s like this; I know dozens of men on permission that went to see their marraines in Paris—sort of fairy godmother stuff, you know—and every one of ’em was sore afterward.” “But why should they have been disappointed ? That’s what you meant, isn’t it?” The young man assented gravely. “Well, when a woman sends things to soldiers, she’s generally thinking about battles and heroes and all that —1I don’t see how she can help it very well—and then if a chap halfway be- tween a tramp and a pirate comes to see her all of a sudden she’s surpris- ed, and he’s rattled, and they’re both uneasy; it just don’t work out! Their ideas are both spoiled, and they stay spoiled. And if it don’t work out in Paris, where the war is, there isn’t hardly a ghost of a chance in New York. Now is there? ” “I’m not sure there isn’t,” doubted Frances. She was as excited as she ever allowed herself to be; the drama of the great conflict had flown to her very feet. “You're a Canadian, did you say?” “I’m from Michigan, really; but I enlisted in Canada.” “How is it you're back in this coun- try then?” “Oh, I was discharged. I'm going back to Montreal to re-up, that is, to re-enlist, tonight.” “I didn’t know that they discharged men until— Why, were you hurt?” He gestured in deprecation. “Just a bit. They didn’t seem to think I'd be much good any more. But I fooled ’em, all right. I've had four months’ rest, and I'm fit! Just thought I'd spend one day in New York first. Its funny—” He halted abruptly. “What is?” “I can’t make it out myself,” he confessed. “I haven't got a friend nearer here than Buffalo. I don’t know why I wanted to travel all the way down here for just one day in New York. It cost a lot, and—well, if you'd ever lived months at atime in a trench full of mud and muck, and had to fight the Fritzes and trench rats and typhoid and pneumonia, and then got one of those kits they send over sometimes, maybe you’d get a hatful of fool notions, too. I guess I just wanted to see that house.” “Hadn’t you a marraine in Paris?” she asked gently. “No; there aren’t enough to go ’round. That’s how I got one of the American packages. And I haven’t any relatives, either.” While he had been talking, Fran- ces had conceived one of her sponta- neously intrepid plans, and it was dazzling her. She gazed at the young man earnestly, and saw that his eyes were frank and true, and that his fea- tures were indicative of boyish strength. He was unquestionably poor, and he was certainly imagina- tive. Tonight he was again to go forth to the hypothecation of his vig- orous young manhood, and he would depart uncheered, uncomplainingly, for another bout with the Fritzes and the trench rats and the fevers. Fran- ces shuddered at the picture. And then a panorama of the day she had planned, an idle, careless day, came before her, and solidified the fantasy of her resolution. What harm could come from a little adventurous altru- ism? Furthermore, she was genuine- ly sorry for this young man; and she was a member of committees organ- ized solely for the comfort of such as “What,” she asked, “were you going to do until train time?” “Nothing much, just hang around.” “Suppose,” she hesitated, “you hap- pened to have a godmother, a mar- raine, here in New York?” . His face lighted swiftly, swiftly clouded. “No such luck. The best I can do is the movies. This is the longest time I've talked to one woman, hos- pital nurses included, since 1914.” “You may be wrong,” she said. “I’ve always intended to be a god- mother to some one in the trenches, but I’ve put it off, and put it off . . . and if you think I can make up for it now—" The young man recoiled violently and his pupils grew wide. “Not you!” he faltered. not saying-—you . ...” “Here we are at Grant's Tomb,” she said imperturbably. “Unless you’ve something better to do, let’s ride down town on the same ’bus and talk it over.” But even then his bewilderment was so great that he didn’t offer to take the seat beside her until she smiling- ly reminded him of the official respect due to her from a youthful godson. It would have been impossible to de- termine whieh one of them was more stimulated by the phenomenon of their acquaintanceship. * For the first time in her life, Fran- ces lunched that day at a Child’s res- taurant. At the original mention of it she had quailed, and debated wheth- er tact would permit her to insist up- on acting as hostess and specifying the Ritz. She almost wished that she had remained adamant in that brief discussion as to which one of the pair was to be the guest, and which one was to reeeive hospitality. She had yielded to him because she was ana- and as “You’re I had about {mised what pleasure it would give this strange young man to do the hon- | } ors, especially since he ought not to afford it. of her mind. “I'm starved!” she confessed happi- ly. Aren’t you?” His answer was somewhat irrele- vant. ; “It’s the most amazing thing!” he said. “I have to keep pinching my- self. Am I dreaming?” She laughed gayly and shook her head. “I think we're both very much awake. told me your name yet? We've been so busy talking generalities.” “Donald Mackenzie. If you don’t yng, Id like it if you just called me ¢ on.’ > his delight. “And yours?” heretofore computed the number of contingencies which depended on it. go ahead, Don; tell me all about everything. Begin at the very begin- ning.” spection. “There’s not such a lot to tell. I was born in Detroit. The earliest thing I want to remember is being a messenger boy in a law firm. Imust didn’t have any family, I just lived. And then I went to night school, and got a regular job, and after that I drifted into the lumber business and took a correspondence course, and when the war broke out I was just going to be promoted to assistant of- fice manager of the Canadian branch of our furniture company. I was in Montreal then.” “But why,” she queried, “did you ever enlist? You're an American. It isn’t your war!” “Yes, it is, too,” he declared. “It’s all our war, only most people over here don’t seem to get it. The United States has been a turkey buzzard in- stead of an eagle so far. I never thought twice about it. You see, I'd had to study history there at school, so I knew what this meant—fight or get swallowed. Then they began to take up war collections, and I knew I ought to give as much as I could. I didn’t have any money to give, but I had me, and—there you are!” “How old are you, Don?” she in- quired. “Me? I'm twenty-one. I guess it wouldn’t be polite for me to—" “Your godmother is exactly twen- ty-four,” said Frances. “Tell me some more!” “Well, I enlisted, and by and by they sent us over. We went right to the front; that was around Neuve Chapelle. Then we fought at Ypres and Festubert and some other places, and settled down at Givenchy. There was where I got my kit from the Vry- lings. And then nothing much hap- pened until one night when I wasn’t expecting it. There was a sort of flash of black and white and red—the blackest black and the whitest white and the reddest red in the world—and then I was back in a base hospital eating through a straw. And they figured out I probably wouldn’t be much good any more, so they sent me along home; only I fooled ’em. I'm is sort of tender. I guess that’s all, x Superbly unconscious that he had devoted only half a minute to occur- rences for which the historians will need volume on volume, he tendered the salt to Frances, and picked up his fork. “And is that all you have to say about it?” she managed. “Oh, every now and then little snapshots come into my head,” he ad- mitted. “But what were you doing. when you were hurt?” “Oh!” said the young man laughing. “That was funny. You see, we weren't getting much of anywhere. We were just stalling, and waiting for breaks. And opposite us there was a crawd of Bavarians. They weren’t bad chaps, either, they play- ed pretty straight. And we fixed up a sort of exchange: at night some of their men would crawl out between the trenches and leave a lot of bottles of beer covered up with an old news- paper, so we could see the white spot in the dark; and then they'd scuttle back and some of our boys would crawl out and get the beer, and leave jam. Those Bavarians were plain bat- ty about English jam. And then after they’d crawled out again and got the jam and get back to cover, we'd all shoot like the mischief for a few min- utes, just for instance, and go on from there. “Well, one night when I'd gone out, two of the boches stuck their heads up and yelled, ‘Look owit! Look owit! Prussians tomorrow! Prussians to- morrow!” And that was all they said. We didn’t pay much attention to it. “But we didn’t see any Prussians the next day, and when the regular time came we saw the newspaper flapping in the wind, and another chap and I loaded up with jam pots, and went out on our hands and knees —"” He broke off and calmly butter- ed a slice of bread. “Yes!” she implored. “Go on!” “Well,” said the young man simply, “those Bavarian fellows were square, all right. So Prussian regiments re- lieved ’em about dark. And the Prus- sians knew all about the way we’d swapped supplies. So when I pulled the newspaper—that was when the blast went off.” “N-no!” she faltered, cheeks were white. “I ought to know,” he said, chuck- ling. “It was a young infernal ma- chine. The newspaper had a string hitched on.” “And—and you can laugh it?” He was instantly alert and perplex- “Laugh? Who laughed ?” “Why, you did!” and her about “Did I?” He grinned broadly. “That’s funny. I didn’t know I laughed. I don’t see much tolaugh about. This other chap, now, he never knew what struck us.” He peered for a moment into space, and finallly added: “Strictly between you and me, that is why I am going back to France!” Relentlessly she thrust the Ritz out | Do you know you haven't | “I shall—Don,” she said, enjoying . Her answer was hesitant; she hadn’t | “I'm Frances Putnam. Now please ' The young man frowned in retro- | have been about ten or eleven. I | nication, during which Frances found herself discounting much of the so- - cial uncouthness of the boy from the | ‘trenches. What chiefly absorbed ber | at this time was the intellectual | : phase of warfare; she wondered how | 1a man of lively fancy could endure | i ideals. i i “What did you think about?” she | asked. | “What ?” i : “What did you have to think] i about?” . i The young man scowled in retro- | ‘ spect. 3 f “Well, that’s ‘a question. When: | there’s anything doing, you simply | haven’t time to think, and apart from i ‘that—well, I guess I spent the last! | few months I was over there wool- | gathering.” | “How do you mean?” | | “It’s hard to describe; you don’t | . exactly think, and you don’t exactly | not think; you’re not asleep, but you | don’t seem to notice very well what's | ‘going on around you, and you just ‘ sort of work out what you’d do with | the world if it was all yours.” i “I know,” she sympathized. “I've! { done that often!” : “Personally,” said the young man, | finishing his dessert, “I was a goed | deal of an idiot, I suppose. ... You! don’t want to sit around here any! longer, do you? Let’s walk scme- where until two o’clock.” He paid the check out of a thin roll of bills of low denomination; Fran- ces’s heart contracted, but she held her peace, for she knew that he was glorying in his mastery of events. This was his day to be lavish; and he would be mortified beyond words if she attempted to deter him. In fact, he had flatly refused to accept her proffered companionship unless she gave in to his demands. “Why do you think you were an id- iot?” she prompted him when they were on the sidewalk. The young man wavered, looked at her, and suddenly grinned. “I guess it won’t kill me to tell you —1I spent most of my time courting.” “Not—literally ?” “Oh, no! Far from it! There never was anybody, anyhow. Butit was this girl that lives up there on River» side Drive, this Eleanor Vryling. I used to think about her so much I— oh, well, it’s just pure tommyrot And me—thunder! I was coming back to put over some deals that'd make the United States Steel company look like a five and ten cent store! And then—” He eyed her quizzically. “You aren’t rich, are you?” “That’s not an easy question answer, Don.” “I guess it’s all right,” he said. “You wouldn’t be half so nice, and you wouldn’t spend ten seconds talking to me! ‘Where were we?” “You’d spoken about this girl.” “Oh, yes. Why, I used to figure out what she looked like, and how she talked, and all that. It’s sully; but, my lord! what could we do?” “What was she like, Don?” “A good deal like you,” he said un- expectedly. “Only not so pretty. Oh, lord! It seems so far off now. . . .. {But there’s a point that nobody but a | few people in France and England i have caught yet. You take the aver- { age man in the line: he gets plenty of food, and he’s got clothes to wear. He hasn’t got any bills to pay, there’s not a lot to worry him. You see, no- body thinks much about getting hurt, that’s part of the day’s work. You get it or you don’t and there you are. But, I was saying, they take pretty good care of them generally. It isn’t any picnic, but everything’s done that can be done. Now where does that leave us? The Government takes care of a man’s body, and they send a holy Joe along to—" “A what?” “Holy Joe, chaplain! They send ’em along to look after the men’s souls, if they've got any. Not all of ’em have. But the thing that plays the deuce with us is that we haven’t much of anything to put in our hearts. Now if people, I mean nice women and girls, sent us letters, and a bit of to- bacco now and then, and didn’t do another single thing, we’d be better off. It’s the friendly side of it we miss. Oh, of course, it’s pretty cheer- ful to get stuff to wear and eat, but if people only put a letter along with it, it'd be worth ten times as much, or a to hundred times.” He frowned, and corrected the estimate. “No—a thousand!” “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Frances reflectively. “Well, you reason it out. Anyway, the only way I was in touch with America was through those shipments from here. And at that I’d have trad- ed all three for one good letter! There was just a card with her name on it.” “Didn’t you write to her?” “Oh, yes.” His intonation was sig- nificant. “What’s the matter; didn’t she answer you?” “No—not exactly. But I can un- derstand it, now. The stuff wasn’t for me, it went out in bulk. It be- longed to whoever happened to grab it. She probably ordered those kits in carload lots; she couldn’t have an- swered the letters she got in a month of Sundays. I did have a note from her mother, though, on another card, about as long and friendly and chat- ty as a keep-off-the-grass sign.” ; He consulted his watch and esti- mated time and distance. “Let’s walk it,” he said. “I’m not getting half enough exercise to put me in shape again.” They had seats in one of the last rows of the orchestra; and from the time that the young man gave Fran- ces her program, and the house lights subsided into dimness, she was sensi- tive to a sweeping alteration of his mood. The sentimental play which seemed banal to her, affected the young man powerfully. He had spoken the bare truth when he had filed his brief for the trench fighters. Failing relatives and friends to in- spire him, he had labored through two arid years with none of the finer emotions to stir him; and in harden- ing himself to grim actualities he had left himself no defenses on the ro- mantic side; he was hungry for the human elements which by definition | She observed, | eyes must be excluded from the science of war; he was exquisitely receptive to recognizing these facts, reminded her- self that not once had he taken ad- vantage of this brief relationship of theirs, and as she recalled that what she had first set down as forwardness had been merely his eagerness to be- hold the home of 4 visualized ideal, i the terrific devastation among his | she was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of compassion which left her palpitant. In the dusk of the theatre she put out her hand. It encountered his, and automatically he drew away. Fran- {ces smiled a deprecatory little smile to herself and waited, and as she had correctly anticipated his strong, ‘ean fingers came stealing back and closed around hers and tightered. She could fathom, as definitely as though his sensations were spread before her for the laboratory test, just what were his reactions at this moment. She knew that he was reverent in his at- titude toward her, and that he was immeasurably grateful to her, and she couldn’t possibly have avoided the knowledge that she fascinated him; and yet his clasp was firm and steady and reassuring to her, for it told her that he was in undisputed control of himself. It also told her that he was a palpable foreigner in the realm of flirtatiousness. At the end of the first act he relin- quished her hand so that the blaze of light disclosed them sit- ting sedately in conversation. however, that his held a new quality, and that he displayed less concentration upon the topic of discussion; but she was inwardly pleased that he was neither mawkish nor languishing. He might indeed adore her, but he couldn’t possibly be puppyish about it—he wasn’t that type of man! “I hope you’re liking it, too,” he ventured, after a pause. “I am,” she said. “More than any- thing I’ve seen for ages.” “If it was all over and finished and done for while I'm saying this,” he stated in an undertone, “I’d remember it always as the most beautiful after- noon that I’ve ever had.” “Is it as fine as that—honestly ?” “Honestly,” he reiterated. “But it would have been just as fine if it had been perfectly rotten, if you were here!” She blushed at that, and was amaz- ed to know it; she had rather assum- ed that blushing was one of her lost arts.—B. Holworthy Hall, in Decem- ber American Magazine. (Concluded next week). ONE MOTHER’S VIEWPOINT. What a subject! I presume there are as many different viewpoints as there are different mothers; but as I am only asked for mine, that should be easy. Can anything be more terrible than war? Yes, a thousand times yes: Peace with dishonor. And can any- thing be more awful than to have one’s son go to war? Yes; have a son who does not want to go. But that does not mean that every boy should go, just because he wants to, for the boy who is getting his ed- ucation is preparing himself to “do his bit” just as much as if he enlist- ed. But what a “body blow” to a mother to have a son who does not want to enlist. And there are some mothers who are willing to have other mother’s sons protect them and their sons, but do all in their power to give a selfish “viewpoint” to their own sons. And the poor man’s child is reviled and shunned, when it is not really his own fault. : Every mother, if she will conscien- tiously have a “little confab with her soul” knows that this war is a war for humanity; a war to save men’s souls and bring out their character in a manner that a life of selfish indul- gence would never do. Why, there are self-centered, money grubbing men who have been transformed into self-sacrificing christian gentlemen, by the atmosphere of the boys “over there.” “Our boys in khaki” who are giv- ing their lives for us mothers. It just brings a lump into our throats, and yet, when I think that my own boy may soon be one of them, it is a lump of joy to know that he wishes to go. When a woman asked me if I “would let my boy go” I answered, “let him go? I'd send him.” A grandson of General U. S. Grant is a “water boy” for the Foreign Le- gion. That does not sound very hero- ic, but it really is, for twice in twen- ty-four hours he loads four small donkeys with water bags and leads them through the muddy communica- tion trenches and woods that are con- stantly shelled by the enemy’s guns, right up to the front firing line, where his thirsty comrades are fighting. For that is just one example of the sort of men from all walks in life who make up. “The Legion that never was listed, That carries no colors or crest, But split in a thousand detachments, Is breaking the road for the rest.” So, boys, “break the road for the rest” that your mothers may be proud of what you do, for every good deed accomplished, every wrong impulse resisted, is a bit in the character building that each boy is doing to- wards the perfection of a courageous, manly lad, to join, if not the United States Army, the Army of Life, for the peace of the world to come. DOROTHY GOODWIN-HILE. Great Gunnery. An unstable patron of New York's gay places was taking his way north- ward when he came upon the tele- scope man at Columbus Circle, who lets you look at the stars for a nickle. The bibulous one looked at the tel- escope in amazement. “Sh-a-gun!” he said, thickly. He put his fingers to his ears and watched. Presently a shooting star fell from the sky. The happy one smiled broadly, took his fingers from his ear and patted the telescope man. “ ‘Sha-a-good shot, old boy!” he said, and wabbled out into the park. EL RSI TE FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. DAILY THOUGHT The saddest thing that can befall a soul Is when it loses faith in God and woman. So many mothers are obliged to put up lunches for the children and are at their wits’ end wondering what they will put in the box or basket. ‘Be sure you have variety and that there is plenty; above all have it dainty. Sandwiches are the mainstays, be- cause they are never brought back. Try date sandwiches. Wash, dry and stone the dates and chop with an equal amount of walnut meats. Whole wheat bread with peanut butter. Brown bread with cream cheese. Whole wheat bread with a filling of hard boiled egg chopped fine is rel- ished by most children. It may be moistened with cream salad dressing. Orange marmalade makes a nice filling for white bread. Tender roast beef chopped and sea- soned is a good filling. White meat from a fowl is good. White bread and strawberry jam. White bread with butter and chop- ped ham, or with chopped nuts and raisins. Sardine sandwiches are good. Re- move tail and bones, mash and moist- en with soft butter, season with cay- enne and Worcestershire sauce, spread paste between slices of white bread and butter. Always mince the meat; it is really nicer and much easier to eat. Sometimes cut the sandwiches in odd forms. The bread should be a day old, and of firm, close texture. So much for the sandwiches. An orange, an apple or bunch of grapes generally meet with approval. Pick perfect fruit and wrap in para- fin paper. Some children prefer a ba- nana. A few olives are nice for a change. Have a few small jars with a screw top and use them for baked apples, or custard, potato salad; even beans are liked with the lunch; a tiny glass of jelly or fruit sauce in the jar. Little cakes, cookies in odd shapes, coffee cakes, gingerbread, ginger wa- fers, sometimes a piece of maple sugar, cheese, celery, sweet chocolate, a few figs and dates, a handful eof nuts. Simplicity to Control Modes for 1918.—The very latest achievement by a branch of the Council of Nation- al Defense startles in the boldness of its purview and the unsuspected mas- culine wisdom shown in the chosen point of attack. A saving of 25 per cent. in the material which enters into milady’s gowns and fabrics for 1918 has been effected by the commercial board of the council, and in men’s at- tire the total economizing will net 40 per cent. W. S. Gifford, the hero who plan- ned this intrepid coup, called the French Ambassador to his aid, and thus the Parisian modiste was induc- ed to stop designing needless frills and furbelows in the way of flounces, tucks, belts and camouflage pockets. He dared face the modiste as the fountain head of fashion and disdain- ed, or dared not to consult the “ulti- mate consumer.” Simplicity is to control the modes for 1918, and feminine artistry will teach that the rococo in ornamenta- tion is unpatriotic. The compelling motive of this stirring assault on the citadel of women’s gowns was the threatened shortage of wool. Direc- tor Gifford appealed to M. Jusser and he, in turn, officially notified his Government of the crisis. Then the modistes were consulted and, with true French zeal, they pledged to dic- tate plain designs, with only necessa- ry use of material. Faced with the wool shortage, the economy board told the French Am- bassador that conservation of cloth was necessary to enable the nation to provide uniforms for its armies. Whether dresses will be shorter, or tighter, or merely less elaborate, has not been announced. In all cases, where it is necessary to curtail use of raw materials, the war industries board and the commer- cial economy board will work with the manufacturers rather than with the consumers, Mr. Gifford said. This was decided after close study of all phases of industries likely to be af- fected by the war during which it was found that injustice and waste would result from efforts to classify certain products as non-essential to the pros- ecution of the war, or as a frivolous use of material needed elsewhere. While the economy board frowns on the use of unnecessary belts and trim- mings, the public will not be urged to forego such luxuries, but the makers will be asked to stop their manufac- ture. Clothing already made with these adjuncts might be a total waste, it was pointed out, if a “slacker” charge were laid against them. When shortage of raw material like coal threatens an industry with cur- tailment or suspension, the economy board will inform all such manufac- turers. Advice will be given as to how other manufactures may be turn- ed to war work or their output reduc- ed gradually and every effort will be made to avoid a sudden stoppage of work, which might have a disastrous economic effect.—Pittsburgh Dis- patch. Fur is being used just as much as a trimming this autumn as last. It is a wise and economical decision upon the part of dressmakers to use fur in bands upon coats for lengthening pur- poses, as cuffs, sleeve-bracelets, chok- ers, glove gauntlets, and collars, for by doing so, many renovation schemes are encouraged, and every little piece of fur in hand can be utilized for these and hat-trimming purposes. If a mirror is hung where the di- rect sunlight can shine upon it, the silver on the back will become injured and the mirror will become clouded and hazy. There are still ‘some pockets, but they are growing scarce. Reversible black and white satin ribbon is used for girdle. Two-piece sport suits are made of knitted Shetland wool. High ruffied lingerie collars are one | of the new fashions.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers