  Being "An Outsider's" Views of an Elks' Social Respectfully dedicated to Archie Boyd, a Real Elk. Have you ever, when benighted In a strange town, been invited To a social of the B. P. O. of E.? 'Twas too early to be sleeping And the "blues" were o'er you creeping And you wished that at home you could 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 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. For the greatest aggregation Of "Good Fellows" that the world has ever known. "Time All Open. Indefinite." "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, "Who are you writing to?" asked George. "Huber." "F-o-r-t-y." All Artists, while playing "the Provinces" in England, stop at "lodgings," that is, private houses. The landlady always keeps a book, in which she has the visiting Artists write their autographs, and a line telling how much they have enjoyed her "lodgings." E. J. Connelly got into one house where he did not feel like writing just what he thought about it; but the landlady was so insistent that finally he took the book and wrote— "Quoth the Raven; E. J. Connelly." One night at the Vaudeville Comedy Club the conversation drifted around to Stage Tramps. It happened that there were several of this style of the genus homo present and they began a good-natured dispute as to which had been playing tramp parts the longest. Nat Wills went back as far as 1885. Charlie Evans said that "Old Hoss" Hoey could beat that, as he was at it in 1881. John World said Just then Walter Jones wandered in, and the matter was referred to him. "Boys," he said, stifling a yawn, "you are all Pikers; Mere Johnnie Newcomers. Why, I played a tramp part in '1492.'" |
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