They knew what happened.  They knew that the sacred sign of the crucifix did not stay the fury of the Cossacks!  These are the people, these Polish people, who have been seen to kiss the soil of Canada in an ecstasy of gladness when they set foot upon it, for it is to them the land of liberty.  Liberty of speech and of action, safety of life and of property mean something to them; but we have always enjoyed these things, and esteem them lightly.

The first blow between the eyes that our complacency received was Belgium!—­that heroic little country to whose people citizenship was so much dearer than life or riches, or even the safety of their loved ones, that they flung all these things away, in a frenzy of devotion, for the honor of their country and her good name among nations.  This has disturbed us:  we cannot forget Belgium.  It has upset our comfortable Canadian conscience, for it has given us a glimpse of the upper country, and life can never be the same again.  It is not all of life to live—­that is, grow rich and quit work.

The heroism of the trenches is coming back to us.  It is filtering through.  It is the need for heroism which is bringing it out.  We are playing a losing game, even though we are winning.  There is only one thing more disastrous than a victory, and that is a defeat.  I do not need to enumerate what we are losing—­we know.  What can we do to make good the loss?  Some of our people have always done all they could:  they have always stood in the front trench and “carried on”; others have been in the “stand-to” trench, and have done well, too, in time of stress.  Many have not yet signed on, but they will:  they are not cowards, they are only indifferent.  This has been true of the protected woman in the home, who has not considered herself a citizen.

We have come to the place now when our full force must be called out.  The women are our last reserves.  If they cannot heal the world, we are lost, for they are the last we have—­we cannot call the angels down.  The trumpets are calling now in every street of every town, in every country lane, even in the trackless fastnesses of the North Country.  The call is for citizens,—­woman citizens,—­who, with deft and skillful fingers, will lovingly, patiently undertake the task of piecing together the torn mantle of civilization; who will make it so strong, so beautiful, so glorified, that never again can it be torn or soiled or stained with human blood.  The trumpets are calling for healers and binders who will not be appalled at the task of nursing back to health a wounded world, shot to pieces by injustice, greed, cruelty, and wrong thinking.

The sign of the Red Cross is a fitting emblem for the Order, worn not only on the sleeve, but in the heart; red to remind its wearer that God made all people of one blood, and is the Father of all; and the Cross which speaks of the One whose mission on earth was to save; who came not to be ministered unto, but to minister.  Every one who signs on does so for “duration,” and must consider herself under orders until the coming in of that glad day