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 On April sixth the Cunard Bulletin, the wireless newspaper, is laid beside our plates at breakfast with the announcement that's thrilled around a world, "The United States has declared for war." The Englishman next me says, "That must be a great relief for you." And I cannot answer for the choking in my throat. My country, oh, my country, too, at the gates of hell to go in regiment by regiment!

On Sunday the English clergyman reads the service including the phrases in brackets: "God save the King (and the President of the United States). Vanquish their enemies and preserve them in felicity." Down beneath the sea the Germans in their submarines too are praying like that to the same God. But one hopes, oh, one earnestly hopes, that God will not hear them.

After the sixth day out, we have probably escaped the submarines. The American men are no longer kindly asking me in anxious tone, "You're not nervous, are you?" On the eighth day they get out the shuffleboard. Two mornings later when we awake, the sea is a beautiful blue, all dimpling with sparkling points of golden light. It is real New York sunlight again! The captain comes down from the pilot-house smiling: "Well, we got away this time," he says.

The Statue of Liberty is rising on the horizon. The Manhattan sky-line etches itself against the heavens. Do you know, I'd rather be a doorkeeper here at Ellis Island, than a lady-in-waiting anywhere in Europe. The Carmania warps into dock