The real voice of Labour is not that of the delegates who want to go to the International Socialist Conference at Stockholm to talk to Fritz, but of the Tommy who, after a short "leaf," goes cheerfully back to France to fight him. And the fomenters of class hatred will not find much support from the "men in blue." Mr. Punch has had occasion to rebuke the levity of smart fashionables who visit the wounded and weary them by idiotic questions. He is glad to show the other side of the picture in the tribute paid to the V.A.D. of the proper sort: There's an angel in our ward as keeps a-flittin' to and fro, With fifty eyes upon 'er wherever she may go; She's as pretty as a picture, and as bright as mercury, And she wears the cap and apron of a V.A.D. The Matron she is gracious, and the Sister she is kind, But they wasn't born just yesterday, and lets you know their mind; The M.O. and the Padre is as thoughtful as can be, But they ain't so good to look at as our V.A.D. Not like them that wash a teacup in an orficer's canteen, And then "Engaged in War Work" in the weekly Press is seen; She's on the trot from morn to night and busy as a bee, And there's 'eaps of wounded Tommies bless that V.A.D. Our Grand Fleet keeps its strenuous, unceasing vigil in the North Sea. But we must not forget the merchant mariners now serving under the Windsor House Flag in the North Atlantic trade: "We sweep a bit and we fight a bit--an' that's what we like the best-- But a towin' job or a salvage job, they all go in with the rest; When we ain't too busy upsettin' old Fritz an' 'is frightfulness blockade A bit of all sorts don't come amiss in the North Atlantic trade." "And who's your skipper, and what is he like?" "Oh, well, if you want to know, I'm sailing under a hard-case mate as I sailed with years ago; 'E's big as a bucko an' full o' beans, the same as 'e used to be When I knowed 'im last in the windbag days when first I followed the sea. 'E was worth two men at the lee fore brace, an' three at the bunt of a sail; 'E'd a voice you could 'ear to the royal yards in the teeth of a Cape 'Orn gale; But now 'e's a full-blown lootenant, an' wears the twisted braid, Commandin' one of 'is Majesty's ships in the North Atlantic trade." "And what is the ship you're sailin' in?" "Oh, she's a bit of a terror. She ain't no bloomin' levvyathan, an' that's no fatal error! She scoops the seas like a gravy spoon when the gales are up an' blowin', But Fritz 'e loves 'er above a bit when 'er fightin' fangs are showin'. The liners go their stately way an' the cruisers take their ease, But where would they be if it wasn't for us with the water up to our knees? We're wadin' when their soles are wet, we're swimmin' when they wade, For I tell you small craft gets it a treat in the North Atlantic trade!"