did not hear the feeble piping set up by the few intrepid travelers to Gloucester. A spinster next to me cried out entranced: "Oh, I would like to take each of those boys and hug them."
A ship is always a noble sight, and while the Haverford was never built for beauty, she has the serene dignity of one who has gone about many hard tasks in her own uncomplaining fashion. She has a large and solid stateliness. Hurricanes cannot hustle her, nor have all the hosts of Tirpitz marred her sturdy comelihood. Her funnel is too outrageously tall and lean, her bows too bluff, her beam too broad for her to take on any of the queenly grace of her slim and swagger sisters. She is a square-toed, useful kind of creature; just the sort of vessel the staid Delaware loves, with no swank or swagger. And yet, in the clear yellow light of the winter morning, she seemed to have a new and very lovely beauty. Her masts were dressed with flags, from the bright ripple of the Stars and Stripes at the fore to the deep scarlet of her own Red Ensign over the taffrail. Half a dozen tugs churned and kicked beside her as she swung slowly to the dock. Over the water came a continuous roar of cheering as the waiting thousands tried to say what was in their hearts. In the crude language of the Board of Health, her passengers had not been "disinfected" and we were not to be allowed "contact" with them; but they had traveled far and dared much; they had gone out hoping no gain; they had come back
