PARIS, January, 1916. At home people who read of some splendid act of courage or self-sacrifice on the part of the Allies, are often moved to exclaim: "I wish I could help! I wish I could _do_ something!" This is to tell them how easily, at what bargain prices, at what little cost to themselves that wish can be gratified. In the United States, owing to the war, many have grown suddenly rich; those already wealthy are increasing their fortunes. Here in France the war has robbed every one; the rich are less rich, the poor more destitute. Every franc any one can spare is given to the government, to the Bank of France, to fight the enemy and to preserve the country. The calls made upon the purses of the people never cease, and each appeal is so worthy that it cannot be denied. In consequence, for the war charities there is not so much money as there was. People are not less willing, but have less to give. So, in order to obtain money, those who ask must appeal to the imagination, must show why the cause for which they plead is the most pressing. They advertise just which men will benefit, and in what way, whether in blankets, gloves, tobacco, masks, or leaves of absence. Those in charge of the relief organizations have learned that those who have money to give like to pick and choose. A tale of suffering that appeals to one, leaves another cold. One gives less for the wounded because he thinks those injured in battle are wards of the state. But for the children orphaned by the war he will give largely. So the petitioners dress their shop-windows. To the charitably disposed, and over here that means every Frenchman, they offer bargains. They have "white sales," "fire sales." As, at our expositions, we have special days named after the different States, they have special days for the Belgians, Poles, and Serbians. For these days they prepare long in advance. Their approach is heralded, advertised; all Paris, or it may be the whole of France, knows they are coming. Christmas Day and the day after were devoted exclusively to the man in the trenches, to obtain money to bring him home on leave. Those days were _les journees du poilu_. The services of the best black-and-white artists in France were commandeered. For advertising purposes they designed the most appealing posters. Unlike those issued by our suffragettes, calling attention to the importance of November 2, they gave some idea of what was wanted. They did not show Burne-Jones young women blowing trumpets. They were not symbolical, or allegorical; they were homely, pathetic, humorous, human. They were aimed straight at the heart and pocketbook. They showed the _poilu_ returning home on leave, and on surprising his wife or his sweetheart with her hands helpless in the washtub, kissing her on the back of the neck. In the corner the dog danced on his hind legs, barking joyfully.