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With the full blast of war sweeping over this old Continent, with the young manhood of France forming a wall of steel between us and the enemy who would annihilate, with the prospect of this tragedy continuing for an indefinite period, each Frenchwoman, safe behind the living barrier, asks herself what she can do to help. How to use her individual capacities to the best advantage for the sustenance and comfort of those dear ones—the son or grandson in the trenches, the husband or brother at the front, the children and the old folk left behind in her care.

As one looks abroad over this beautiful country, seeing what she is accomplishing, one is inspired with a sincere and fervent admiration for her devotion, self-sacrifice and patriotism.

These noble qualities are not restricted to one class, but are universal in all ranks; from the peasant to the comtesse, from the little working girl to banker's wife; dressmakers, actresses, school-teachers, shopkeepers, nuns, the erstwhile rich and idle, as well as the wage-gainer, all feel the same enthusiasm; the same spirit of courage and endurance fills their souls; the pressing desire to "soul-ager" (help) the sorrow and privation brought on by this war of wars.

All through the summer and autumn the women have worked manfully in the fields. I use this word advisedly.

The physical strength to gather the wheat, cut the hay, garner the fruit and vegetables, care for the cattle, toiling every day and all day to replace the men at the front, shows what healthy living for generations will do.

I have seen them down on the beach raking up the heavy piles of sea-weed, pitching it on the high carts and hauling it back to their farms, sometimes miles away, as fertilizer for the soil.

Strong, broad women these, woolen skirts tucked up high above their thick ankles, muslin coiffes flapping in the stinging wind blowing in from the channel, broad faces and muscular arms, red from exertion; very often even, the Grandma tosses a load of sea-weed on her pitchfork to the granddaughter, standing high upon the soggy mass in the two-wheeled cart. I have seen them working at the cider mill in the farmyard; ploughing the fields for the winter wheat; driving carts piled with farm products to the markets. A woman and a tiny donkey being about the only means of transport left now, since the horses and men have gone to the war.

The old men and women, who might confidently look forward to a comfortable seat by the open hearth, are out in the fields in all weathers, forgotten, the rheumatic joints, the bronchitis and the colds; the wind is piercing, rain falls almost every day in Brittany, but warm garments, and boots lined with straw keep out the cold, and the cattle must be herded; someone must cut and trim the hedges and trees; collect the apples and cabbages; potatoes and turnips must be dug Many are the little gifts of knitted socks and jerseys, of passemontagnes (hoods) sent to the "Poilu" at the front, for these women are never idle. In the long, dark evenings by the open fire, with only its light and a candle to brighten the dark interior, knitting needles glisten and click, and thoughts roam afar to the trenches, where, behind the barbed-wire and fortifications, "the man" is watching each day.

Railroad canteens are another war work for the soldiers going to, and coming back from the front. Here they can get a warm drink and food—tea, coffee, milk, cocoa, good bread and meat, etc.—served by the ladies of the French Red Cross, who also climb into the trains, passing from carriage to carriage, shaking their little tin boxes for sous or francs; the stations have, as well, a Red Cross dressing station, where wounds are washed and rebandaged, a bed for a weary body, and a quiet hour are provided free of all charge. They are constantly used, I can tell you.

In thousands of hospitals all over France, the Red Cross nurses are working with unexampled devotion. No task is too menial for them, no work too repulsive; their only thought is to relieve the suffering of the poor creatures brought to them. The men repay them well by quick obedience, and openly-expressed gratitude. It is a touching sight to go down a hospital ward lined with beds, and see these chaps follow gratefully with boyish eyes, the little white-robed figure, which represents so much to them of well-being and gentle care. If one stops to inquire about their health, always a cheery answer, "Ca va bien aujour d'hui, Madame (It goes well today, Madame);" no matter how much they suffer, or what acute agony they may be undergoing, they will not admit it.

I know one boy of nineteen, a volunteer, twice wounded, who was told by the doctor, while dressing his wound for the first time after his third operation, "Scream, my boy, scream, if it does you good, it will help."

"No, doctor," he replied, "I prefer to whistle." So while the doctor opened the wound and cleaned the bone, he whistled "Nous les aurons" (We'll get 'em)—the latest song from the trenches.

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Many women who would gladly work in the hospitals are prevented by other duties. They have their homes and children to look after, or old people or invalids dependent on them, or also they must tend the shops in their husbands' absence, or run the auberge or hotel, or work in the factories, but each one does something on the side for the "Union sacrÉe." It may not be more than a pair of knitted socks sent weekly to the trenches, or a cushion made of snipped-up cotton rags, cut fine and close, or a package of tobacco bought by carefully saved sous. From this universal wish have been created many good and useful works. During a recent visit to Paris I was impressed by the number of charities Frenchwomen have established and keep in fine running order. Let me mention a few:

1. Oeuvre des Blesses au Travail (work of wounded soldiers).

2. Oeuvre du Soldat dans la TranchÉe (fund for the soldier in the trenches—send warm clothing).

3. For sending food and clothing to the French Prisoners in Germany.

4. The "Quinze Vingt" the government establishment for teaching the permanently blind a trade.

5. The Duchesse d'Uzes' organization for sending clothing and money to the soldiers from the invaded districts; men who have no news from their families or relations since the German invasion.

6. Soup kitchens—good, wholesome meals provided for ten cents. There are a number scattered over Paris, frequented by men and women of good positions before the war. Old artists and musicians out of work, professors who have lost their jobs, refugees from Lille, Courtrai and the invaded provinces, widows and girls with no means, little dressmakers and milliners without custom—a sad patient crowd who come silently and humbly to eat the bitter bread of charity. One group of ladies at the Hotel Mercedes (placed at their disposal) provides four hundred meals daily.

L'Oeuvre du Blesse au Travail (objects made by wounded soldiers) are showing in handsomely arranged shops, articles made by the men as they lie wounded in their beds. These articles consist chiefly of baskets of finely plaited straw, some artistically colored and of charming designs; others made by clumsier hands, crude but interesting—lace mats of plaited ribbon; string bags of macramÉ work; penholders and pencils, fashioned from spent cartridges. Rings made from the aluminum tips of exploded German shells picked up in the French trenches—these are very cunningly made and are often very handsome in design and execution. Every man, woman and child wants one of these rings, but as their only value is being "genuine," i. e., made in the trenches by a soldier, from the real shell tip, there are naturally not enough to go 'round.

Flowers made out of bread, tinted and modeled to an exact imitation of Dresden flowers, stand in little gilt baskets, also made by the soldier. Dolls as Red Cross nurses, soldiers, doll furniture and houses, boxes, baskets, no end of tempting little things are displayed and sold by the ladies of the committee, who guarantee the genuineness of each object.

Then there is the "JournÉe," or a day is chosen with the approval of the government, committees are formed in all the cities, towns, and villages of France. Bands of young girls and children start out early to sell flags or boutonnierÉs or rosettes, on the steps of the churches, at the railroad station, in the public squares and streets, holding their little pincushions stuck with flags, or scraps of ribbon, with a sealed tin box for coins. Thus, enormous sums are collected for the various war works, and every one, no matter how poor or humble, can give his offering.

Besides these charities, innumerable "Ouvroirs" exist in every city. Sewing-rooms, where poor women are paid (and fed) to make shirts, chemises, belly-bands, socks, pyjamas, etc., and everyone is thus helped through the long, hard winter.

Women are taking men's places all over France. Women are in the munition factories, in the government postoffice and telegraph service, as tramway conductors, as metro ticket collectors—places they never dreamed of filling before the war, for the Frenchwoman is essentially a home-body, her "intÉrieur" (home) being dearer to her than all else; to take these masculine occupations is especially hard.

The great dressmakers of the Rue de la Paix, the Rue de Rivoli, and the Place VendÔme are doing their share, too. One floor is usually devoted to some charitable purpose, either an "Ouvroir," or a convalescent home, etc.; and that the little "midinette" (apprentice) may feel that she, too, is working for France, a work has been started called "la marraine" (the godmother). Through proper channels, any woman or girl can be put in communication with some lonely soldier in the trenches. She writes him long, encouraging letters. She keeps up his spirits by letting him know someone is thinking of him. When, by strictest economy, she can scrape a few sous together, she buys him a ten-cent packet of tobacco, or a few postal cards, or a pencil, and back in due time comes a soiled card, written in pencil, telling her the news of the trenches, how they will soon throw the "sales boches" out of France, and promising to spend many a happy hour with his "marraine" if he is lucky enough to escape the German bullets.