That is the hardest task of all. Places are found for them readily enough; the money to pay their way is to be had for the asking; but to satisfy the reasonable demand of the country hosts that their little guests shall come clean from their tenement homes costs an effort, how great the workers who go among those homes "with a Bible in one hand and a pair of scissors and a cake of soap in the other" know best. A physician presides over these necessary preliminaries. In the months of July and August he is kept running from church to hospital, from chapel to nursery, inspecting the brigades gathered there and parting the sheep from the goats. With a list of the houses in which the health officers report contagious diseases, he goes through the ranks. Any hailing from such houses--the list is brought up to date every morning--are rejected first. The rest as they pass in review are numbered 1 and 2 on the register. The No. 1's are ready to go at once if under the age limit of twelve years. They are the sheep, and, alas! few in number. Amid wailing and gnashing of teeth the cleansing of the goats is then begun. Heads are clipped and faces "planed off." Sometimes a second and a third inspection still fails to give the child a clean bill of entry. Just what it means is best shown by the following extract from a mission worker's report to Mr. Parsons, last summer, of the condition of her squad of 110, held under marching orders in an up-town chapel: "All the No. 2's have now been thoroughly oiled, larkspur'd, washed in hot suds, and finally had an application of exterminator. This has all been done in the church to be as sure as possible that they are safe to send away. Ninety have been thus treated." Her experience was typical. Twenty No. 1's in a hundred was the average given by one of the oldest workers in the Fresh Air Service whose field is in the East Side tenements. But all this is of the past, as are the long braids of many a little girl, sacrificed with tears upon the altar of the coveted holiday, when the procession finally starts for the depot, each happy child carrying a lunch-bag, for often the journey is long, though never wearisome to the little ones. Their chaperon--some student, missionary, teacher, or kind man or woman who, for sweet charity's sake, has taken upon him this arduous duty--awaits them and keeps the account of his charges as squad after squad is dropped at the station to which it is consigned. Sometimes the whole party goes in a lump to a common destination, more frequently the joyous freight is delivered, as the journey progresses, in this valley or that village, where wagons are waiting to receive it and carry it home.