So the Ministry of Munitions took the matter up and summoned the designers. As the result, the most charming “creation” was adapted from the vaudeville stage for industry. The girl “lift” conductors at Selfridge’s Store in London are the prettiest things you will find out of a chorus. Theirs are called, I believe, “peg-top” breeches, and there is a semi-fitted coat, the whole uniform in mauve and beautifully tailored. Well, the Government has issued a variety of patterns, some of course, for a much less expensive outfit than this. There is one uniform that costs not more than 4 shillings: sometimes the firm even furnishes it and launders it. The costume it is most desired to introduce is the khaki trousers with the tunic and a round cap, because it is really a protection for the workers against the revolving machinery. Factories not yet quite ready for the whole innovation, begin with the tunic and a cap and a skirt. But when you have convinced Mrs. Black how well she is going to look in the other things, she’s ready to put them on. The situation adjusts itself. This report has been made on it to the Government. I quote verbatim from the published Proceedings of Parliament and a member’s speech: “The Ministry has spent a very considerable amount of time in going into this matter. It would seem to us as men a simple thing. But at any rate now from all I have heard, they appear to have solved the difficulties. The women’s uniforms up and down the country vary, of course, according to the duties they have to perform, but they must strike all who have observed them not only as useful and comely, but also as reflecting credit on the fatherly care which the Parliamentary Secretary for the Ministry of Munitions has exercised over the many thousands of the daughters of Eve who look to him as their protector.” Daughters of Eve in your country’s service, is there anything more that you require? Yes, one thing more: Parliament, please hold the baby! It was a response returned from Northumberland to Wales. Every government summoning its women in industry has sooner or later faced the request. There were lines of women applying for Poor Relief. But why not go to work, the authorities would ask. And the child in her arms was the woman’s answer. Not every woman like Mrs. Black had a maiden aunt who could be hired to take care of the children. So it happened that, figuratively speaking, the baby was passed to Parliament. Those gentlemen, exclaiming “Goodness gracious!” hastily looked about for a place to lay it down. And the public _crèche_ has been promptly erected. Sometimes it’s done by philanthropy, sometimes by the factory, and sometimes at public expense. “We’ll pay for it,” says perspiring Parliament, “only hurry!” And they have hurried all over Europe. The baby of a reigning monarch is scarcely more scientifically cared for to-day than is the working woman’s baby.