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.
"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,