A Belgian woman whose father was one of Belgium's leading
lawyers--her husband was at the front-was the busy head of this
organization, because, as she said, the busier she was the more it
"keeps my mind off------" and she did not finish the sentence. How
many times I heard that "keeps my mind off------" a sentence that was
the more telling for not being finished. She and some other women
began sewing and patching and collecting garments; "but our
business grew so fast"--the business of relief is the one kind in
Belgium that does grow these days--"that now we have hundreds of
helpers. I begin to feel that I am what you would call in America a
captainess of industry."

Some of the good mothers in America were a little too thoughtful in
their kindness. An odour in a box that had evidently travelled across
the Atlantic close to the ship's boilers was traced to the pocket of a
boy's suit, which contained the hardly-distinguishable remains of a
ham sandwich, meant to be ready to hand for the hungry Belgian boy
who got that suit. Broken pots of jam were quite frequent. But no
matter. Soap and water and Belgian industry saved the suit, if not the
sandwich. Sweaters and underclothes and overcoats almost new,
and shiny old morning coats and trousers with holes in seat and
knees might represent equal sacrifice on the part of some American
three thousand miles away, and all were welcome. Needlewomen
were given work cutting up the worn-outs of grown-ups and making
them over into astonishingly good suits or dresses for youngsters.

"We've really turned the rink into a kind of department store," said the
lady. "Come into our boot department. We had some leather left in
Belgium that the Germans did not requisition, so we bought it and that