they designed the most appealing
posters. Unlike those issued by our suffragettes, calling attention to
the importance of November 2, they gave some idea of what was wanted.

They did not show Burne-Jones young women blowing trumpets. They were
not symbolical, or allegorical; they were homely, pathetic, humorous,
human. They were aimed straight at the heart and pocketbook.

They showed the _poilu_ returning home on leave, and on surprising his
wife or his sweetheart with her hands helpless in the washtub, kissing
her on the back of the neck. In the corner the dog danced on his hind
legs, barking joyfully.

They showed the men in the trenches, and while one stood at the
periscope the other opened their Christmas boxes; they showed father and
son shoulder to shoulder marching through the snow, mud, and sleet; they
showed the old couple at home with no fire in the grate, saying: "It is
cold for us, but not so cold as for our son in the trench."

For every contribution to this Christmas fund those who gave received a
decoration. According to the sum, these ran from paper badges on a pin
to silver and gold medals.

The whole of France contributed to this fund. The proudest shops filled
their windows with the paper badges, and so well was the fund organized
that in every town and city petitioners in the streets waylaid every
pedestrian.

Even in Modena, on the boundary-line of Italy, when I was returning
to France, and sharing a lonely Christmas with the conductor of the
wagon-lit, we were held up by train-robbers, who took our money and
then pinned medals on us.

Until we reached Paris we did not know why. It was only later we learned
that in the two days' campaign the _poilus_ was benefited to the sum of
many millions of francs.

In Paris and over all France, for every one is suffering through the
war, there is some individual or organization at work to relieve that
suffering. Every one helps, and the spirit in which they help is most
wonderful and most beautiful. No one is forgotten.

When the French artists were called to the front, the artists' models of
the Place Pigalle and Montmartre were left destitute. They had not "put
by." They were butterflies.

So some women of the industrious, busy-bee order formed a society to
look after the artists' models. They gave them dolls to dress, and on
the sale of dolls the human manikins now live.

Nor is any one who wants to help allowed to feel that he or she is
too