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Dominion, Volume 4, Issue 1180, 15 July 1911, Page 11

breaking song of pain. And there hangs over everything the feeling tliat they are your own children and that you personally are responsible. Tlie.v come from villages, I hoy come from the hearts of cities, and tho depths of woods, and they come maimed or tortured and trust in the world's great charity. They trust, as children do trust, unthinkingly, knowing we shall not refuse them. Yet how often do wo drive past the windftws of these palaces of broken flowers and give just a passing thought, shudder, and return to tho more comfortable things of our own games or ambitions? I .saw some with lead soldiers playing at victories, and some with dolls playing at mothers, and some had white faces that they hid, and some laughed because they could stay in that quiet, clean place

a little longer and did not have to go ■back to the dirty sliims. And some asked about the. open country, and wondered what the sea was like, and why flowers grew wild; and one held a bluebell tho colour of her eyes and thought it finer than the colour of advertisement hoardings or tho lights in a pawnbroker's shop. And another spoke of her home, and of cows and bees, and of helping on a farm. And another sat dumb with the glazed eyes of pain or muttered childish Italian, or thought of the blue skies and hot sua of Lombardy. And aii the while there walked from cot to,cot mothers to thehi all, called nurses, and I think they were very happy. In this extraordinary city, where every second shop is a toy shop, or a shop of flowers, or jewellery, or scent, or things | for games, or silks and satins and feathers, or books to amuse, or rare fruitsstill there are not enough toys to go round. The best things, the finest toys, the most entrancing books should go to these wounded children who are in pain. As wo treat them, so in time will they treat the Empiro they are born to inherit." For every line tiling we put into their hands, and every gentle thought we put into their hearts, they will return lis a hundredfold. They are everybody's children. Tliey are so small for the battle of life. They , have faces all clean like flowers, and. voices like birds, and they are in. pain and brave beyond praise. And every cot that is endowed and given holds one of-'these wonderful creatures after another, a long human chain of charity and suffering, and each link'is a little child. * * » * "Father," says Marie, "has come back from fishing." "My father," says Madge, "lias written from the yacht." "lather," says MaVie, who is now preparing for bed and delicately washing herself like a young kitten; "father is keeping mother from dressing telling her about the size of the fisli he didn't catch, and mother has said, 'How interesting' so : often that I wonder he doesn't notice she isn't really listening." Then Madge, who has climbed into bed after suspiciously rapid prayers—the nurse being in tiie other nursery—says, "I wonder sometimes if our fathers are really as grown up inside as they pretend to be outride." And as a commentary to this comes tho googling voice of the baby from the other room. "Let's pretend."