Apropos of this visit, it may be added that it occurred at Christmas-time. Now, the flagship of the American Squadron is, I believe, known in the United States as the “Christmas-ship.” Americans are all probably familiar with the origin of this name; but for the benefit of my own countrymen, I must relate their pretty tradition. Every Christmas Day this particular ship lies in New York harbour; on Christmas Eve the crew goes ashore into the slums and Bowery, and every man invites a child to a dinner on board the following day. The little guests are carefully chosen. They are the type of child that would not otherwise eat a Christmas dinner, would not probably eat a dinner at all. The poorest of the poor, from gutter and dive and archway. And not only do these pathetic little guests get dinner, but also a suit of clothes, a toy, and a present of money. For the first time the Christmas just passed found the “Christmas-ship’s” moorings in New York harbour empty. She was lying at the base I have referred to within reach of a great British city. But the tradition remained the same. They had forty-eight hours in which to arrange the whole thing, but they did it. They added one stipulation that has not been laid down in New York. Preference was to be given in the matter of selection to those waifs whose fathers had laid down their lives in battle. Britannia, noting this story, may remember and echo the words of the greatest of all child lovers: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these....” * * * * * To the naval officer a ship’s personnel is necessarily an absorbing study. The human element is one in which he works and lives, and whatever the development of the machine, man and his ways afloat must ever remain the primary factor in a navy’s efficiency. It goes without saying that when the personnel belongs to the ship of another nation the interest is largely charged with curiosity. I attempted to convey something of this interest to the captain of an American battleship, who was my host for the day. We were sitting in his cabin; and the talk had ranged from the Yukon to Brooklyn Yard, and was what a certain weekly paper would call “Mainly About People.” I hinted at my interest in the men not without diffidence, because to ask the captain of a man-of-war if you can go and look at his ship’s company as a matter of curiosity is tantamount to demanding leave of a stranger to go and smoke a pipe in his nursery while his children are being bathed. A mess deck is an intimate place. “Want to see the men?” he echoed, and thrust on his cap. “I’ll show ’em to you.” He was a mighty man possessing volcanic energy and a voice designed to carry orders through a gale. “Come right along.”