We in this formerly gay, fashionable little town see nothing of the pageantry of war—­only its horrors, as trains leave with us hundreds of wounded from the front.  In their bodies we find dumdum bullets, and we hear tales which confirm those of the refugees.

Will America help them?  I, an American woman, could weep for the inadequacy of my pen, for I beg your pity, your compassion, and your help.  Not since the days of Rome’s cruelty has civilization been so outraged.

I beg your paper to print this, and to start a subscription for this far corner of France, where the tide of war throws its wreckage.  The Winter is ahead, and with hunger, cold, lack of supplies, and isolation will create untold suffering.  Paris, too, is now sending refugees from its besieged gates.  Every corner is already filled, and hundreds pour in every day.  The garages, best hotels, villas, and cafes are already filled with “those that suffer for honor’s sake.”  The Croix Rouge does splendid work for the wounded soldiers, but who will help these victims of war?  Fifty cents will buy shoes for a baby’s feet.  Ten cents will buy ten pieces of bread.  A dollar will buy a widow a shawl.  Who will give?  Deny yourselves some little pleasure—­a cigar, a drink of soda water, a theatre seat—­and send the price to these starved, beaten people, innocent of any crime.

You American women, who tuck your children into their clean beds at night, remember these children, reared as carefully as yours, without relatives, money, or future.  They will be placed on farms to do a peasant’s work with peasants.  These women bereft of all that was dear face a barren future.  These aged men anticipate for their only remaining blessing death, which will take them from a world which has used them ill.

America is neutral.  Let her remain so, but compassion has no nationality.  We are all children of one Father.  Send us help.  These poor creatures hold out to you pleading hands for succor.

NINA LARREY DURYEE.

P.S.—­I beg you to publish this.  I am the daughter-in-law of the Gen. Duryee of the Duryee Zouaves, who fought through our civil war with honor.  Our Ambassador, Mr. Herrick, and his wife know me socially.  Any funds you can gather please send to M. Grolard, Marie de Dinard, Municipality de Dinard, Ille-et-Vilaine, France, or to Le Banque Boutin, Dinard, France.

A New Russia Meets Germany

By Perceval Gibbon.

[From THE NEW YORK TIMES, Oct. 26, 1914.]

VILNA, Russia, Sept. 28.—­For a fact as great as Russia one needs a symbol by which to apprehend it For me, till now, the symbol has been a memory of Moscow in the Winter of 1905, the Winter of revolution, when the barricades were up in the streets and the dragoons worked among the crowds like slaughtermen in a shambles.  Toward that arched gateway leading from the Red Square into the Kremlin came soldiers on foot, bringing with them prisoners dredged out