Volume 153 — OFFICIAL RECTITUDE.

We cannot think that we're to blame. We took the very natural view That one who bore a German name Would be as open as the blue; Would bathe in sunlight, like a lark, So different from the worm or weevil, Those crawling things that love the dark Because their deeds are evil. We thought his cables just referred To harmless matters such as crops, The timber-market's latest word, The local fashions in the shops, To German trade and German bands, And how in Argentine and Sweden And all that's left of neutral lands To build a German Eden. True he employed a secret code, But who would guess at guile in that? Unless he used the cryptic mode He couldn't be a diplomat; He wished (we thought) to be discreet, Telling his friends how frail and fair is The exotic feminine you meet In bounteous Buenos Aires. Why, then, should mud be thrown so hard At Stockholm's faith? She merely meant To show a neighbourly regard Towards a nice belligerent; For peaceful massage she was made; Aloof from martial animosities, She yearns with fingers gloved in suède To temper war's callosities. Such courtesy (one would have said) Amid the waste of savage strife Tends to maintain—what else were dead— The sweet amenities of life; And seeking ends so pure, so good, So innocent, it does surprise her To be so much misunderstood By all—except the KAISER.