you didn't seem to miss Jimmie's father and some of the others who had gone to the war. Jimmie belongs to one of those 300,000 London families who are obliged to live in one and two room tenements. Five or six, perhaps it was five, little previous brothers and sisters waited on the stair landing outside the door until the midwife in attendance ushered them in to welcome the new arrival. Now Jimmie is the stuff from which soldiers are made, either soldiers of war or soldiers of industry. And however you look at the future, his country's going to need Jimmie. He is entered in the great new ledger which has been opened by his government. The Notification of Births Act, completed by Parliament in 1915, definitely put the British baby on a business basis. Every child must now, within thirty-six hours of its advent, be listed by the local health authorities. Jimmie was.
And he was thereby automatically linked up with the great national child saving campaign. Since then, so much as a fly in his milk is a matter of solicitude to the borough council. If he sneezes, it's heard in Westminster. And it's at least worried about there. Though all the King's councillors and all the King's men don't yet quite know what they're to do with the many problems of infancy and complications of pregnancy with which they are confronted, now that these are matters for state attention.
A first and most natural conclusion that they reached, as equally has been the case in other lands,
