There were old men, women, and children. For instance, one would see a mother walking with a girl of fourteen, a girl of twelve, a child of seven, and a child of one in her arms, carrying a small mattress, pillows, any coverlets whatever, that they might have a night not of sleep, but of security in a cave a mile and a half outside the town. That was my first view of people seeking refuge from the aerial bombardment.

I went over to our canteen. It had been an old warehouse and had been fixed up by camouflage artists. In the main room were tables where soldiers could have meals. Back of that was a large room with cots for the soldiers to sleep. Next to that was a room where the soldiers could take off their clothes and, while they were bathing, the clothes could be fumigated.

I walked around in the crowd and in the cashier's office one of the girls stepped up and pulled down the window. I asked, "What has happened?" She said, "The raid is coming, we must get to a place of safety." I said, "You come with me." She said, "O, never. Do you think that I, as head of this canteen, could leave this building while there is a French soldier in it? Do you think an American woman could run from a bomb in the presence of a Frenchman?”

Well, after a bit we went to the abri, built of reinforced concrete, with sandbags over the top. It would hold, perhaps, one hundred people. The signal that the raid was over was sounded at half past ten and we went out. I asked, "Are you going home?" They said, "What, going home? We are open twenty-three hours a day. We close only between seven and eight in the morning that the place may be cleaned." They went back and I went to the hotel.

THE FEET OF THE CHILDREN

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We retired and were awakened about one o'clock by the breaking in of our windows. That indicated another air raid was on—and so, through the night, that town was bombarded. In the morning we saw the people going about more or less in their usual demeanor. Of course,

they were paralyzed with fear, but there wasn't any sign of weakening.

Three days later that town was evacuated by its civilian population. The soldiers of the French army remained, and you may know that the eighteen American women are still there running the canteen. They will continue to do so as long as there are any soldiers there.

THE FEET OF THE CHILDREN

NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH

In far Arabia they tell the tale

A wondrous tale, e'en in the home of wonders-
Of that great magic-worker, whose fine ear,
Held to the ground in any desert's core,
Yet could detect on Bagdad's stony ways
The pattering of little children's feet
And hear their laughter and their frolicking.

A wondrous tale indeed; and yet today,
In this new land that never held enchantment,
Day after day the miracle is wrought again.
No woman's ear that is not pressed to earth
Each morn she wakens, while with anguished heart
She hears the echoing of children's feet,

Bare feet and wayworn, in the wilderness.

Oh, little feet in Flanders and in France;

Strayed feet in Belgium's vast orphanage;

Feet that have never sinned and yet must bleed
In Germany's stark homes and swollen graveyards;
Small feet of woe in Russia's cruel snows;

Armenian feet and Polish, Serb and Austrian,
We hear your terror in your pattering.

We may not bear the load of anguish more;
Each step falls like a weight of iron down.
We feel the frozen touch, the icy chill,
Of flesh that life may never warm again.
Oh, feet unsheltered from the wintry blast,
Dear feet that never walked uncompanied,
God send you safely into paradise!

WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME

JOHN HAY

There's a happy time coming,
When the boys come home.
There's a glorious day coming,
When the boys come home.
We will end the dreadful story
Of this treason dark and gory
In a sunburst of glory,

When the boys come home.

The day will seem brighter
When the boys come home,
For our hearts will be lighter
When the boys come home.
Wives and sweethearts will press them
In their arms and caress them,
And pray God to bless them,

When the boys come home.

The thinned ranks will be proudest
When the boys come home,
And their cheer will ring the loudest
When the boys come home.

The full ranks will be shattered,

And the bright arms will be battered, And the battle-standards tattered,

When the boys come home.

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Their bayonets may be rusty,
When the boys come home,
And their uniforms dusty,

When the boys come home.
But all shall see the traces
Of battle's royal graces,

In the brown and bearded faces,
When the boys come home.

Our love shall go to meet them,
When the boys come home,
To bless them and to greet them,
When the boys come home:

And the fame of their endeavor
Time and change shall not dissever
From the nation's heart forever,

When the boys come home.