e of affairs in the
Crimea, and gifts and supplies poured in profusely. But owing to the
inefficiency and red tape of the War Department, the supplies were not
delivered, but lay rotting in warehouses and in the holds of vessels
while men died for the want of them. On one occasion, we are told, a
consignment of shoes for the soldiers turned out to be in women's
sizes. Improper inspections resulted in high profits, for the army
contractors made uniforms out of shoddy and leather accouterments from
paper, filled the cores of hay bales with kale stocks and cheated the
Government right and left without forbearance or conscience.

Then the newspapers began calling for English women to go to the Crimea
and care for the sick, and Florence Nightingale heard the call. She
wrote a letter to Sydney Herbert who was Minister of War, volunteering
to organize a body of nurses and go out to the Crimea to care for the
wounded.

Right then a curious thing happened. The War Department had already
decided that Miss Nightingale was the one person who could take charge
of the reorganization of the hospitals in the Crimea, and had written a
letter requesting her services. Offer and request crossed each other in
the mails. On the following day her appointment was officially
announced, and she was overwhelmed with proffers of assistance from all
sides.

A large number of patriotic women volunteered to aid her, but only a
very few possessed the necessary qualifications for such a task. Of all
that offered to go Miss Nightingale was only able to accept thirty that
she considered would be capable of performing the severe tasks that lay
ahead, for she knew only too well the grim welcome she would receive at
the Crimea.

Without farewells, quietly and at night, seen off only by a few
intimate relatives, the little group of nurses started on their
mission--the first one where women were to care for the soldiers who
had fallen in war.

They crossed the English Channel and arrived at Boulogne in France on
the following morning, where they were given a rousing greeting by the
voluble French fish-wives, who had heard of their mission and who
crowded around them to get a sight of the angels of mercy. From there
they made their way to the seat of the war, and Miss Nightingale looked
for the first time on the hospital where she was so soon to acquire
immortal fame.

It may well be thought that her heart sank when she saw the enormity of
the task th