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 Perhaps my feelings are the only thing that doesn't belong to Uncle Sam, yet I feel contented, like my work, and study and try to get ahead. Isn't that the way to do? Don't you admire the paragraphing in this note? I think it's fine. But you know we mustn't waste even paper. Will someone waste a post card on me, or—never mind, I'm satisfied with what I have. Thanks a whole lot.”

Of course if you were a man in the service you peeked through the window to see what was going on beyond it; and you caught a glimpse of smiling women behind a counter, selling yarn and yarn and still more yarn to the women in front. Then you couldn't help walking in, for somehow everything seemed to talk to you of the things you wanted said, and a warm welcome was sung into your very soul. On entering, you found a bunch of boys trying on sweaters and helmets and wristers, expressing their desires like little children in a toy shop, and receiving them without stint; even, as one boy exclaimed, without being asked what church they belonged to. If you looked beyond that pile of knitted wear which seemed to envelop you, your eyes rested upon a group of young girls who belonged to no unit, but who spent their spare moments making and filling comfort bags, sewing on labels, etc.; and then your gaze was drawn irresistibly over the intervening space, filled with desks for the clerical part of the movement, to a platform where the knitting machines were running to full capacity, and socks, those “Christian Science socks,” as the boys called them, because they were “so soft,” and “didn't shrink,” were issuing in hundreds.

But not all of you were men; some of you were women, and therefore after looking over the knitted wear to “get ideas,” you stepped to the window