STABLE INFORMATION.
Last winter I wasn't familiar with Brown,
Our intercourse didn't extend
Past a grunt if we met on the journey to town
And a nod when I chose to unbend;
But times are mutata, and now I've begun
To cultivate Brown more and more,
For Brown has a son who is friends with the son
Of a man at the Office of War.
When a fog is concealing how matters progress
And editors wearily use
(Upholding the goodly repute of the Press)
A headline from yesterday's news,
Brown's knowledge enables his friends to decide
What the future is holding in store,
For we gather that Kitchener loves to confide
In that man at the Office of War.
And I in my turn spread the tidings about;
To the heart that is apt to be glum
And the spirit that suffers severely from doubt
Like a sunbeam in winter I come;
"The Teuton," I whisper, "will suffer eclipse
In the course of a fortnight—no more;
I have had it—well, almost direct from the lips
Of the Chief of the Office of War."
