MUNITIONETTES.

Pelorus Guardian and Miners' Advocate., Volume 29, Issue 41, 29 May 1917, Page 2

MUNITIONETTES.

YOU’LL ENJOY THIS HUMAN LITTLE SKETCH FROM THE

MUNITION SHOP

“Would you like a little salt with tli at egg ?” The girl in the dark blue overall pushed a small paper packet towards the hard-featured woman absentmindedly eating her lunch. Brushing back a whisn of hair, the woman took the i ■ salt, and, with a touch o. . r - in her face, looked up. “You new ’ere?” she “I only started this raeru.ii.-,” admitted the girl. “It’s rataer strange at first, isn’t it ?” “Ain’t ever been in a factory before, p’r’aps 7” “No,” the girl replied with a faint blush, as the other two Pinchers at the rough table looked up. “Can’t say as I ever worked in a munition factory before,” said the older woman, as from a white cloth she unearthed a slice of bread ; and thus her mouth closed with a snap, and her interest in her fellow-worker doefieed to cease an she stolidly proceeded with iw lunch.

“ft’hat brought you here?” asked a raftw«l-ls"'Ajiig woman re.ri. to the fe*e» mV *rw 11 girl.

’•Vfell, I f - 1 T must da s-mething to help,” ciui the girl, as, with heightened colour, she looked at the women scaled ror-'d t' - e ton all table tu tire improvised mneheon-room. ‘‘l teal as if I’m nv.i',- doing something that matters the munitions factory. “You see, I can easily h« spared at home. There’s no mother and dad there.

The woman who hai aiAed the question nodded, and dr l -* her own deduction from the sparklia? diamond ring blazing on the girl’s third Bnger. “Anyone 'out there y=ursaU ?” she baked.

“Yes,” quietly answered the girl as brer ga*e roved over the busily eating throng in th» room. No one pressed the question further. "And what made you come?” she asked after a moment’s pause.

“What made me come ?” reiterated the refined-looking woman, as she spread some jam on her bread. “111 tell you,” she went on, laying down the knife. “Not that there’s much to tell.

“I’v« neither man to give nor child to lose for my country, and the sight of other women giving their all was too much fot me, so I threw »p my job—where I couldn’t convince myself that I was doing warwork —and came in the munitions works. I can look every khaki man In the eye now, satisfied that lam doing my bit to help him,” she ended, packing her jam-jar away in her attache case.

She was not heroic-looking, and perhaps suly the woman with the greyish hair, who was listening intently, guessed the sacrifice this woman of thirty-five had made in giving up a lucrative post. But she of the bread-and-jam laughingly turned to the pretty girl next her. “Your story next !” she said. “Well, I wanted to he a soldier !” frankly confessed the curly-headed girl. “I’ve got three brothers out there,’ she added with a touch of pride, ‘and my eldest brother wrote saying that the next best thing to being a soldier was to make the shells for them to win with. Hence !” she flushed merrily, as, with a wave of her hand, she rose and made a mock bow. All three of them now looked at the elderly woman—the only one at the table who had not told her little history. “Did you have any special reason lor coming to the munition works ?” fently asked the girl in the blue overall. The features of the rugged face twiched as she said vehemently : “Yes ; rather mor’n any of you have got. “Them’s my reasons for being here,*’ she added more quietly, as, thrusting tier hand into her bodice, she placed on the table a cheap postcard photograph of a soldier in khaki, with a tiny boy in his arms. “Your son ?” asked the blue-over-ill ■ girl, noting the thin wedding-ring on the elder woman’s hand. “Yes, my son,” came the calm reply, “Killed in France.”

"And the little boy ?” "His son/’ And the voice was more stifled this time. Killed by Zeppelins !”—"Answers.”