[The revival, in certain quarters, of commercial relations with Germany has already begun to blunt the memory of the War.  And now the proposal to open up trade with the Co-operative Societies in Russia, to the obvious benefit of the Bolshevists, who practically control the whole country, looks like an attempt to bring about indirectly a peace which we cannot in decency negotiate through the ordinary channels of diplomacy.]

  They are coming, the carpet-baggers, their voices are heard in the land,
  Guttural Teuton organs, but very polite and bland;
  And our arms are stretched for their welcome; we’ve buried the past like
      a dud;
  For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.

  The Winter of war is over, and lo! with the dawn of Spring
  They come, and we greet them coming, like swallows that homeward swing,
  Fair as the violet’s waking, swift as the snows in flood,
  For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.

  Likewise with Soviet Russia—­we’ve done with the need to fight;
  There are gentler methods (and cheaper) of putting the whole thing right;
  The palms of the dealers are plying the soap’s invisible sud,
  For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.

  Of Peace there can be no parley with LENIN’S regime, as such,
  But Business can easily tackle what Honour declines to touch,
  Making the sewage to blossom, sampling the septic mud,
  For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.

  Thus may our merchant princes modestly play their part,
  Speeding the silent process of soldering heart to heart,
  Just as the forces of Nature silently swell the bud,
  For blood may be thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than blood.

  So in the hands of the Bolshie our hands shall at last be laid;
  Deep unto deep is calling to lift the long blockade;
  “No truck,” we had sworn, “with murder;” but God will forget that oath,
  For blood is thicker than water, but Trade is thicker than both.

  O.S.

* * * * *

With the auxiliary patrol.

An honourable record.

Many years ago, in the reign of good Queen Victoria, a little ship sailed out of Grimsby Docks in all the proud bravery of new paint and snow-white decks, and passed the Newsand bound for the Dogger Bank.  They had christened her the King George, and, though her feminine susceptibilities were perhaps a trifle piqued at this affront to her sex, it was a right royal name, and her brand-new boilers swelled with loyal fervour.  She was a steam trawler—­at that time one of the smartest steam trawlers afloat, and she knew it; she held her headlights very high indeed, you may be sure.