Like many Americans, Matthew Hudson was quicker to perceive the true romance of the Old Country than many of its own inhabitants. He had been particularly interested in the names of the British trawlers. "It's like seeing Shakespeare's Sonnets or Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry going out to fight," he had written to his son, who had just left Princeton to join the Mosquito Fleet; and the youngster had replied with a sonnet of his own. Matthew Hudson had carried it about with him and read it to English statesmen, greatly to their embarrassment--most of them looked as if they were receiving a proposal of marriage--and he had found a huge secret joy in their embarrassment, which, as he said, "tickled him to death." But he murmured the verses to himself now, with paternal pride, thinking that the boy had really gone to the heart of the matter: _Out of Old England's inmost heart they go, A little fleet of ships, whose every name-- Daffodil, Sea Lark, Rose, and Surf, and Snow-- Burns in this blackness like an altar flame._ _Out of her past they sail, three thousand strong-- The people's fleet, that never knew its worth; And every name is a broken phrase of song To some remembered loveliness on earth._ _There's Barbara Cowie, Comely Bank and May, Christened at home, in worlds of dawn and dew. There's Ruth, and Kindly Light, and Robin Gray, With Mizpah. May that simple prayer come true!_ _Out of Old England's inmost heart they sail, A fleet of memories that can never fail._ At this moment the _Morning Glory_ ran into a bank of white mist, which left him nothing to see from the bridge. The engines were slowed down and he decided that it was time for breakfast. The cabin where he breakfasted with the skipper was very little changed, except that it seemed by contrast a little more palatial than in peace time. There had been many changes on the exterior of the ship. Her white and gold had been washed over with service gray, and many beautiful fittings had been removed to make way for grimmer work. But within there were still some corners of the yacht that shone like gems in a setting of lead. The _Morning Glory_ had been a very beautiful boat. She had been built for summer cruising among the pine-clad islands off the coast of Maine, or to carry her master down to the palms of his own little island off the coast of Florida, where he basked for a month or so among the ripening oranges, the semitropical blossoms and the cardinal birds, while Buffalo cleared the worst of the snow from her streets. For Matthew Hudson was a man of many millions, which he had made in almost the only country where millions can be made honestly and directly out of its enormous natural resources.