ould be.

But when once you got inside,
Got to drifting with the tide
Of Goodfellowship that seemed to fill the room;
Was there not a better feeling
That came softly o'er you stealing
That seemed to send the sunlight through the gloom?

There is magic in those letters;
Binding men in Friendship's fetters,
Wondrous letters; B. P. O. of E.
There's "Benevolence," "Protection,"
Mark you well the close connection
As they beam down from above on you and me.

And you listen to the stories
That they tell about the glories
Of this Brotherhood you meet on every hand.
Of a hand outstretched in pity
To some Elk in foreign city,
A Stranger, and in a stranger land.

And now the murmur is abating;
And you notice men are awaiting
For the hour of Eleven's drawing near.
'Tis the sweetest hour of any;
Each remembered by the many,
As they drink to "Absent Brothers," held so dear.

And now I want to ask a question,
Or rather make a slight suggestion
To you "Strangers" that these invitations reach.
When you're asked to entertain them
Do not bashfully detain them
With that chestnut that you cannot make a speech.

You may not be a dancer;
Or your voice may have a cancer,
And as a singer you may be an awful frost.
But if you can't do recitations
Or other fancy recreations,
Don't consider that you are completely lost.

For somewhere in your travels
You've heard a story that unravels
All the kinks you had tied up in your heart.
And can't you, from out the many,
Tell one, as well as any?
It will show them that you want to do your part.

So do get up and make a try;
You can't any more than die;
And if it's rotten, your intentions will atone.
And you'll show appreciation
For the greatest aggregation
Of "Good Fellows" that the world has ever known.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "Time All Open. Indefinite."]

Several years ago the Quigley Brothers, Bob and George, were living at a
boarding house on Fourteenth Street, New York. One afternoon George was
standing in front of the looking glass, shaving, and at the same time
practicing a new dance step. Bob was seated on the floor, writing
letters, on his trunk, to different managers for "time." He stopped,
looked up and said,

"How do you spell eighty, George?"

"Who are