Mr. _Punch_ is bound to plead for THE CHILDREN'S AID COMMITTEE, who undertake the care of the motherless children of our fighting men, feeding and clothing them and finding homes for them in the country. This labour of love has far outgrown the modest scope of its original plan and now stands in urgent need of assistance. Except for a Christmas Gifts Fund no appeal has yet been made to the public in the Press. Mr. _Punch_ is very confident that he will not ask in vain for help in a cause that so nearly touches the hearts of all; and that he may rely on his many generous readers to see that this good work does not fail, both for the children's sake and for the comfort of their fathers who are fighting our battles. Gifts of money and clothing, and offers of hospitality will be very gratefully acknowledged by Miss MAXWELL-LYTE, Hon. Treasurer of The Children's Aid Committee, 9, South Molton Street, London, W. * * * * * [Illustration: PUFFING BILLY. WILLIAM JUNIOR. "I SAY, FATHER, I BELIEVE THE DAM THING'S PUNCTURED!"] * * * * * BLANCHE'S LETTERS. LAND-LADIES. _A Farm, Somewhere in the Country._ DEAREST DAPHNE,--I'm on the land! _Several_ of us are on the land! No one need worry any more about agriculture and rotation of crops and all that sort of thing being stopped by the War. We're going to see to it. It is positively _enthralling_ work! Lady Manoeuvrer wrote me an agonised letter the other day, asking me if I thought there'd be any season in London, and if it would be worth her while to take a house and give some parties for Bluebell. And I wrote back: "Please--_please_ don't talk to me about London and seasons and _parties_! I know absolutely _nothing_ of such matters. I'm on the land!" And I wound up with, "This comes hopping," in real farmers' style. [Illustration: _Recruit (much perturbed)._ "IF YOU PLEASE, SERGEANT, THE OTHER FELLOWS SAY I'VE GOT TO GROW A MOUSTACHE." _Sergeant._ "OH, THERE'S NO COMPULSION ABOUT GROWING A MOUSTACHE, MY LAD; BUT YOU MUSTN'T SHAVE YOUR UPPER LIP."] I wish you could see me ploughing, dearest. My ploughman's pinny, big soft hat and leggings are a dream. (_À propos_, the "ploughman's pinny" is going to be _the_ summer coat this year.) Oh, my Daphne, I plough such an adorable furrow! Yesterday, when I was at it, the oldest inhabitant came and leaned on a gate to watch me--one of those fearful creatures, you know, who've lived through six reigns and can read small print and smoke six pipes a day, and end by getting into the daily papers. "Be you one o' they fine Lunnon ladies wot 'ave come to these parts to blay at varmin'?" he asked. "We haven't come to _play_ at farming," I told him; "we've come to take the men's places and help save the country." "Yon's a wunnerful bad furrow," said the creature. "And what be goin' to sow in it?" "Oh, corn or chaff, or whatever it is people eat, I suppose," I said.