The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1917-11-16
HOW THE Y. M. C. A, HELPS BOYS
IN FRANCE TO Remember Their
HOMES And FRIENDS IN THE u. S.

ed the intervening years. So you will
understand that from this hour in
which her youngest boy slipped away
from their Maine camp in his gay
red runabout, to turn up only the
other day in a British uniform, with
a dull little cross which he shows only
ION demand, she and I have talked
of little except her boy somewhere in
France.
She is the sort of woman who can
maintain a town and country estab-
lishment without friction, entertain
her husbands friends suavely, dis
pense personal charities graciously
and pray noontimes in quiet churches
unostentatfously. I imagine that most
of her petitions for the past fifteen
years have been for Jack.
For will not try to gloss the truth
about Jack. All the wildness and spir-
it of misrule on both sides of the fam,
lily seemed to crop up in turn. He
holds record for suspensions in
good schools. The unspoken question
on his mothers lips no matter at what
hour the house was closed, was all
ways-~I wonder where Jack is?'' But
whatever his sins of omission or of
commission, he has always been truth
full. brutany truthful. His teachers
may have expelled him from school in
the cause of discipline, but they be-
lieved every word he said.
And he lived up to this record dur
ing his three years, somewhere in
! France. Three times he was made
an officer and three times he fell back
into the ranks for defying military
regulations. Three times he landed
in a, hospital, and the third time in
FOL OF I'm ola nd the
doctors decided that Jack could never
again go over the top, never again
shoulder a rifle. After that came King
fGeorge, the little crossEand passage
for America.
Now you can picture the mother
and the home to which Jack return
ed, and the Jack who rose stiffly and
grinned cheerfully- as I entered his
mothers morning room. His khaki
uniform struck an alien note among
the cretonne fixtngs, all gay flowers
end paraquettes, the luxurious "trip
peries of woman-made home. But
the boy snuggled among pillows as if
the touch of them filled long exist
ing void.
'~You must find New York a. bit
dun after camp life." I suggested.
Nov do you spend the time ?''
T. liz yd6S1Oo q SOnAAo eA1AA1ASs e"AA-
grinned again.
aTm the busiest man. in town. see
I two shows day. I have seen all the
best ca.barets and eaten at all my old
restaurants. And when there's moth
ing better, SIT at the window in Dads
club and watch the girls trail up and
down the Avenue. My word you don't
know what summers American girls
are-tfn you live In the. trenches!
Look at Motherthe sickness Of her
hair-like satin, isn't it? And her
cheek-like the inside Of a rose petal.
And that lacy stuff at her throat.
That's what you think of In the
| trenches just Of fine, womanly
stuff something sweet and clean and
kissabIe. You remember the Scot In
Barrte's The Old Lady Shows Her
Medals ?-Chiffons- what we
think of-not Fritz. not glory-chif-
fons I could look at 'em for a year %
He laughed shortly. Perhaps my
face showed surprise. Chiffons- from
a man with a cross under his coatI
He rose and made a restless tour
Of the room.
Oh, yes, Jack walks-with q limp.
His right leg was saved by one OF
those marvellous operations which
military surgeons In France perform
as frequently as civilian surgeons in
America remove appendices.
But they could not put his right
arm back into commission because
Ia bit of sshrapnel struck spot IN
the spine which set that arm into per-
petual motion. A small piece of his
jaw is missing and his mother in
formed me privately that between all
the pleasurings which he named
| = L. t. a yvjt
the dentist
So we talked about the efficiency OF
Fritz the marvellous method by which
England unprepared had modified
/ her munition makers until she could
| fire three shells to Germany's one,
| life in the trenches and the billets,
the terrific task of rehabilitating de-
vastated France, war relief, and what
| is most wanted by men at the front.
To us women, itw as a new story,
breathlessIy absorbing. To him, 1t
was old, but he answered patiently.
"By the way, did you see much of
the Y M. C. A. work in France?"
Indifference died in pose and face.
He leaned forward eagerly. His
cheeks flushed, and his eyes brighten
ed.
aNow you're asking. The Y. M. c.
A? Say, you can't understand 1t-no
woman could It's a mans work,
done in a mans way-for men, The
Y. M. C. A. My God-the Y. M. G. A.
Int is the only home the boys from
the states will know from the time
they enter France till, they come out.
What's a. billet? A barn without
roof. A cellar without a light. A
warehouse alive with rats and vermin.
What's bIighty? A few days in Paris