An appeal for a Little Folks Ward

Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll, has sent a special message to the readers of LITTLE FOLKS, which appears in the February number. It is in connection with an appeal for a "Little Folks' Ward," to be founded in the North-Eastern Hospital for Children.

The 'special message' in the Little Folks magazine is reproduced, in full, below.

GREAT SCHEME FOR LITTLE FOLKS

"I owe you five farthings,"
Said the Bells of St. Martin's.
"When will you pay me?"
Said the Bells of Old Bailey.
"When I grow rich,"
Said the Bells of Shoreditch.

THE old jingle rang in my ears as I found myself facing Shoreditch Church on a grey London afternoon. And after I had walked through a mile and a half of Shoreditch, I came to the conclusion that those Old Bailey bells are most probably still asking that question in vain, and that they had better give up the matter as "a bad job." For there are no signs of Shoreditch growing rich. In fact; it is a good deal poorer than in the days when a hunting- box stood where narrow courts and dismal alleys do now-and that was only 150 years ago. I am told!

No, Shoreditch is desperately poor, and it is because I do not believe that one out of ten of my readers has ever been there - or even has an idea about it at all, saving the one gathered from "Oranges and Lemons" - that I want you to come with me and see what I saw that afternoon.

Well, I walked along the Hackney Road. Leaving Shoreditch Church behind me, and I soon decided that it was not the street you or I would choose for a constitutional. Grey, squalid shops on either hand, filled with all kinds of untempting food-sweet-shops, in which the approach of Christmas could be seen by the addition of silver tinsel ornaments and extra poisonous-looking sweets; cheap eating-houses, with dirt-engrained windows and doors, from which an overpowering scent of cabbage floated; cheap butchers shops, in which terrible-looking bits of meat were ticketed 4d. and 3d., and disposed in wooden trays. Yes, we who never have a greater "food grievance" from one year's end to another than a pudding which we do not fancy, or a "tough joint," little think, as we sit down to breakfast, dinner, and tea, of what is set before the children of the poor throughout the year. Little, starved bodies, little shivering limbs; that is the fate of thousands upon thousands of children of your age, and with feelings like yours.

But I must press on; some other day we will hark back to that subject. For the present come with me down this narrow little side street, Goldsmith's Row it is called, and ring the bell of that building on the right, which towers above its neighbours like Gulliver above the Liliputians - the North-Eastern Hospital for Children. "This is our goal, this rather dingy-looking building, which, some dully-bound book, contains dozens of absorbing stories--stories lying in little white cots, real living, boy-and-girl stories. I was so anxious to see these " boy-and-girl stories" that I did not ring the front door bell, as i visitor should, but I walked in at the out-patients' door, which sounds Irish, but is quite right when you examine it. There I found a flight of stairs, and I marched boldly up to a man in uniform and explained what I had come for, and that I had evidently come in the wrong way. And so I had. He marched me through the out-patients' department, and I had a good glimpse of them. What do you think they are, these out-patients? Why, boys and girls of all ages and sizes, but mostly tiny tots, brought by their mothers to see what the hospital can do for them. There they sit, in a large long room, on wooden benches—at least, the mothers sit on the benches, and the babies sit on their knees - and there is a great deal of talking and exchanging of confidences amongst some mammas, while others sit quite silent, holding a poor wee baby with such a small white face in their loving shabby arms. They are waiting their turn to see the doctor! If the case is a very bad one, it is taken into the hospital — that is, if there is room; if it is less serious, medicine and advice is given, while some children have been in the hospital and are practically cured, only the doctor still "keeps an eye" on them.

The uniformed one takes me up to a little "den," and there in a few minutes I am introduced to the Secretary of the hospital. I have just had time to notice a large sack in one corner labelled H.R.H. the Duchess of Albany, Middlesex Needlework Guild, and this reminds me of the immense number of good works which the Royal Family manage to achieve in their busy lives. Then the Secretary, who knows that I have come to see what I can see to tell the readers of LITTLE FOLKS, takes me up to a door, opens it, and there lie some of the boy-and-girl stories in the medical ward of the North-Eastern Hospital.

"Oh, how pretty!" is the first thing you would say. On either side of the long, bright room with its polished boards, are ranged the cots and bassinettes of the little ones, and down the centre are long tables covered with palms and flowers. The fire gleams and dances in the grate, and the nearest head on the white pillow is golden and curly, and the eyes are bright as they turn to look at the stranger. Surely this is not an abode of pain, but some huge nursery prepared for sleep.

But the illusion does not last.

At that moment a pitiful wail comes from a white a cot, in which lies a wee baby with a pinched white face - a wail of pain. Sister Butt's kind face softens as she bends over the mite and whispers to me:— "Poor darling, she's very ill. I fear she'll not get better." Then, when the little one has been soothed, Sister takes me from one cot to another, telling the story as we pass - stories which would fill page upon page of this magazine (No, Mr. Good Kind Editor, don't be alarmed, I shall save some for "next time"). Brown heads, curly heads, golden heads, smooth heads, there they lie-some sleeping, some tossing uneasily, many "almost better," gazing up with bright, shy eyes, while the " wellest" of all (as I heard a child once say) are sitting up with wooden trays in front of them, on which are dollies, ninepins, books, and other treasures.

"Ah! but come and see Bertie," says Sister, as I linger by one tiny, who will not even tell her name, but gazes solemnly up at me. And then I lose my heart to Bertie.

Oh, my readers, could you but have seen that half-pathetic, half-comical, wee figure! Bertie is three years old, but so small, and so painfully white and thin; and his hair is very fair-almost white-and quite straight and rather long. "They curled it once," says Sister, "but Bertie objected." His eyes look like the dog's in Hans Andersen's story - as big as teacups, in comparison with his wee, white face. He sits bolt upright in his little red jacket, and stares solemnly; his mouth is quaintly puckered. Poor wee Bertie, he will never be strong and well, they fear.

"Do smile at the lady, Bertie," says Sister.

But Bertie only stares with those "teacup" eyes of his. He looks like nothing so much as a brownie.

"Tell me your name, do," I hazard.

"Bertie," comes the answer, in the  quaintest little voice, with no change of countenance, though.

"And what does the doctor call you?" says Sister.

"Mouse." And certainly Bertie is very like a white mouse.

"And shall I call you Mouse or Bertie?" I ask.

"Bertie." And a ghost of a smile flickers over Master Mouse's face. Then we became  fast friends, and all I wished for was a camera to show my readers that quaint little creature. Perhaps some other time.

When I can tear myself away from Bertie, who is everyone's favourite, I pass on to the next cot, and there lies a baby of just a few months very white and ill. I cannot linger there, for by the bedside sits its mother, and the tears are rolling slowly down her cheeks. Happily there are such few such cases today.

"You seem to cure most of your patients, Sister," I say; and she smiles brightly, and says, "Yes, we haven't many bad cases now."

There are many little ones by whom I should like to linger with you, but there is still so much to tell of the surgical ward up stairs that I must also leave this till "next time." So we must leave Sister Butt and her chicks, some of whom are singing, "God Save the Queen." like true Britons, while one boy whistles and waves a Union Jack as he lies on his pillow. Upstairs to the surgical ward, where curved spines and poor diseased hips, and accidents of all kinds are treated.

"I was runnin' home from school," says one small boy, 'an' a cart runned over me." The poor broken leg has to be raised high above his head - a very trying and wearisome position. There are several who must lie like this in Sister Fowler's bright and cosy ward - a reflection of the downstairs one. One of these poor mites, whose leg was broken - you see a sister of eight was carrying her and let her fall, these are things which happen way down in Shoreditch - one poor mite is crying helplessly, and is only soothed by holding the Secretary's finger. As soon as it is withdrawn her face puckers up, and the tears begin to roll down again. They need, and receive, an infinite amount of tenderness and loving kindness, these little ones.

On the other side of the ward a rosy-faced urchin of four cries pitifully: "I wants my muvver. Do tell my muvver to come - I wants my muvver."

"He has only just come in," says Sister Fowler, " but he will soon be reconciled." And sure enough the mention of " tea," acts like magic for the moment.

"An' may I have an egg, Sister?"

Sister says, "Yes," and the rosy face clears like the sky after an April shower. But that little glimpse of love for " muvver," in palace or cottage, was very sweet.

Next to him lies a very amusing little maiden, who tells me her name is Elizabeth _Tomkins_ Mary Emily - a curious arrangement! - and many other things, for which I have no space this time. One poor wee thing has to have her bad neck sponged - poor little May - and she weeps piteously, for it is very painful. Soon it is over, and then, like many others, there is scarcely anything to be seen of May's face, for her head is enveloped in white bandages. How patient and good most of them are! In one corner of the ward lies a general favourite - a sweet-faced little girl, "who never complains," as Sister says, though heavy weights are attached to her feet and to her head to cure the poor curved back. And there is another "pattern patient," Willie, who has suffered much and uncomplainingly, and looks up at us with such brave blue eyes.

There is, besides, a demure little maid - Annie - in one corner, who is too shy to answer, but helps me silently to look at her scrapbook, and breaks into a quiet smile when I pretend to discover her portrait among the scraps. And there are two bonny, jolly boys, nearly better - Harcourt (there's a fine name!) and Thomas - whose beds are side by side, and whose eyes sparkle with fun. Then there is a nice boy in " specs," who is reading - now this will specially interest my readers - LITTLE FOLKS to a small boy in the next bed, with whom he seems great friends.

I looked round on the ward, and on all the little "boy-and-girl stories," and I thought of all it meant to these little ones of our great London. True, here there is pain to be endured - long hours, days, even weeks and months of it; but oh! the difference to the dark and dreary " home" from which most of them have come. There - it is too often but one poor squalid room - pain is a hundred times less bearable; warmth and cleanliness and tempting food are unknown. "Too little of everything" is the keynote of their lives - too little food, too little clothing, too little air, too little sunshine, too little happiness - often, alas! too little love!

And when I had bid good-bye to the cheerful wards, the gentle sisters, to the kindly lady superintendent, Miss Curno, and the Secretary, who had shown me everything that could interest my readers, and the hospital was left behind, as I traversed the roaring, gas-lit streets-when I looked back on all I had seen, my heart gave a leap, for I felt that when the readers of LITTLE FOLKS  hear of what I saw, they will rally round, and the plan which the Editor has asked me to explain to them will soon be carried out. For that I had an object in view, when I took you to the North-Eastern Hospital, I daresay you can guess; and a good, kind plan it is, as you would only expect from the Good, Kind Editor. It is this. We hope that the readers of LITTLE FOLKS will make a mighty effort to achieve a work, which will be an unspeakable blessing to numbers of your less fortunate little " fellow-humans," and will be a satisfaction to you for all time.

Long years ago - twenty years ago - the readers of LITTLE FOLKS, amongst whom were maybe your own father and mother, started to collect a thousand pounds for the same purpose, but for a different hospital-the East London Hospital in Shadwell. And lo and behold; before a year was past two thousand pounds had streamed into La Belle Sauvage, and the good work was doubled! So do not let there be a falling-off in you, the younger generation; and now that Christmas, with all its pleasures, and treats, and parties, is past, set yourselves to this great and good task, save the pennies that are often spent so easily and unprofitably - save them for the little ones of Shoreditch. Some of you may have novel ideas whereby you may aid the Fund, but for straightforward collecting you will find cards in this month's LITTLE FOLKS. If you want more, you need only write to the Editor, and he will send you as many as you want -the more the merrier. And every month you and I will meet here in these pages, and I will tell you what is happening in the hospital amongst the "boy-and-girl stories," and how they keep Christmas there, and what work has been done and what work remains. I hope that next month will show that willing helpers are not wanting, but are waiting in thousands - and even tens of thousands! Any letters addressed to the office will reach me, but remember to send all the money you collect to the EDITOR of "Little Folks," La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, E.C.

So to work, all you boys and girls! I know you will throw yourselves gallantly into the work. Remember it is for the pain-racked little ones, whose lives are spent in the grey London streets, where even the sunshine loses some of its splendour, where there is little pleasure and less beauty in life, and where the only thing that makes the dreary days bearable is health to seize the few stray joys that are found way down in Shoreditch.

Remember that many a time the small sufferer cannot enter into the hospital haven because there is "no room." So send in your "five farthings" - or better still your five shillings -not to the "Old Bailey," but to La Belle Sauvage, so that "Shoreditch" may be the richer by six white cots, and the world the richer by a good deed.

A new century has opened before us; we stand on the threshold of a hundred years - a hundred years to be filled with deeds, good and, alas! bad also. Then, work, one and all of you, so that what now exists only in words may by this time next year be a solid reality - so that one of the first golden deeds of this new century may be THE "LITTLE FOLKS" WARD.

H.R.H. Princess Louise, Duchess of Argyll, has very kindly allowed us to publish the following message to the readers of LITTLE FOLKS:—

KENSINGTON PALACE, W.