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fawmMikkiiwmmmmmmmmm It's worn by Eleanore Painter, once a grand opera singer, now singing title role in "Princess Pat" The gown is of white liberty satin with over dress of silver lace. Notice how short the waist is and how closely it fits and this is one of Hickson's spring models. A TOYMAKER BY MARY BOYLE O'REILLY. London, England, Dec. 5 (Delayed in Mail.) The French corporal just back from the trenches sat polishing pawns for a game. "These are for Christmas," he told me, smiling, " a gift for Rosaline from her good St. Nicholas." His boyish manner radiated friend liness. With a stiff little bow he offered for my inspection a short torn kepi half filled with tiny armed workmen, soldier priests and gun carrying peasants of the Lost Prov inces. "I am from Alsace, myself," he announced cheerily, with a whim sical glance at his, French uniform Bandoliers. The reservist station-master lean ing on his rifle in the doorway nod ded discriminating approval. "Your train is two hours late, mon Brave. How came you to make those toys 'up there'?" The corporal ceased polishing an armed cure; his attitude conveyed the easy comradeship of a camp fire. "Voyez vous, mon Vieux, since this business began I have not known one day's leave. A year cut off from the world by sandbags. 'Nous irons jus qu' about we shall fight to the fin ish; for the present we endure a great deadlock. The beginning of victory is not yet. Therefore, I, being a phil osopher, make for myself occupa tion. Else after this war it will seem strangely difficult to be human. En fin, these playthings? Well, you shall hear. Attendez. "When the Germans bombarded Arras our battery was billited in the bovi (enormous cellars) of the Mai son Rouge; that is the most sinister house in the world. With us at first were a dozen women and la petite Rosalind. Mesdames les Refugees IN THE TRENCHES cooked and cleaned, keeping our cel lars tres chic. And Rosalind? Ah, what should we have done without that very small person? "When she was good one of us would hold her to the parapet for an instant that she might observe our guns giving voice or enemy batteries replying fortissimo. When she was naughty it was her penance to play dolls all alone under an arch. "One morning a giant howitzer bu ried 'the safest' of our cellars that cellar where Rosalind played dolls. Helas! our poor little one was abso lutely desolated. In two minutes there remained no doubt what she thought of the Germans. 'It was the sniper,' she cried, 'the bad, wicked, cruel Nuremberger. He has killed all my dollies.' "Entre nous, the battery found it tres serieux to hear a child sobbing. Though we did what we could, even offered to let her pat our Seventy Five (the belowed gun of the French army) , Pitchoune would not be com forted. Suddenly came an inspira tion: Given wood I could carve many dollies toua-a-fait chic. Hardly twenty yards off stood the yew. Came night 1 hauled over the parapet to creep to the tree. Shells whimpered through the dark. No Man's land was a charnel house littered with abandoned dead. A colossal cannon spoke; under the echo ran the tinest of sounds. It might be a rat or a bird. In pitch darkness I lay prone upon the earth. Again the rustling. Some thing lurking near me squelched in the mud. Mon Vieux, man dies un willingly; I slid into a fold of the ground. Then I saw him the Ger man sniper shaking, grey-faced, creeping toward the yew. He, too, carried a hatchet