war there were 80,000 placements in the English
munition factories.

"But I don't want to leave home," I heard a little ex-fusemaker say as we
stood in queues at the chicken-wire hatch in the big bare room turned over
by the ministry of munitions for the replacement of women who had worked on
army supplies. Her voice trembled with the uncertainty of one who knew she
could not dictate.

"Then you've got to be a servant," said the direct young woman at the
hatch. "There's nothing left in Ireland but domestic jobs."

"Isn't--you told me there might be something in Belfast?"

"Linen mills are on part time now--no chance. There's only one place for
good jobs now--that's across the channel."

The little girl bit her lip. She shook her head and went out the rear exit
provided for ex-war workers. Together we splashed into the broken-bricked
alley that was sloppy with melting spring sleet.

"Maybe she doesn't know everything," said the little girl, fingering a
religious medal that shone beneath her brown muffler. "Maybe some one's
dropped out. Let's say a prayer."

Through the cutting sleet we bent our way to Dublin's largest factory--a
plant where 1,000 girls are employed at what are the best woman's wages in
Dublin, $4.50 to $10 a week.

"You gotta be pretty brassy to ask for work here," said the little girl.
"Everybody wants to work here. But you can't get anything unless you're
b-brassy, can you?"

We entered a big-windowed, red-bricked factory, and in response to our
timid application, a black-clad woman shook her head wearily. Down a
puddly, straw-strewn lane we were blown to one of the factories next in
size--a fifty to 100 hand factory is considered big in Dublin. The sign on
the door was scrawled:

"No Hands Wanted."

But in the courage of companionship we mounted the black, narrow-treaded
wooden stairs to a box-littered room where white-aproned girls were nailing
candy containers together. While we waited for the manager to come out, we
stood with bowed heads so that the sleet could pool off our hats, and
through a big crack in the plank floor we could see hard red candies
swirling below. Suddenly we heard a voice and looked up to see the
ticking-aproned manager spluttering:

"Well, can't you read?"

Up in a loft-like, saw-dusty room where girls were stuffing dolls and
daubing red paint on china cheeks, an excited manager declared he was
losing his own job. The new woman's trade union league wanted him