"To the Manager of the ---- Company.

"I can highly recommend you to my hotel we get all the best troups our rates are as follows.

One man or one woman in one bed, $1.25.

Two men, or two women, or one man and one woman in one bed, $1.00.

And the hens lay every day.

"---- ----, Proprietor."

Hanging in each room of the Freeman House at Paterson, N. J., there used to hang a neat little frame of "House Rules." Among these rules were the following:

"Towel Service will be restricted to one clean towel for each guest daily. The face towel of the previous day may (and should) be retained for hand use the following day."

"Gentlemen will not be allowed to visit ladies in their sleeping rooms, nor ladies to visit gentlemen in their rooms _except under extenuating circ.u.mstances_."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Why?"]

A little boy playing around the stage door of the Orpheum Theater in Kansas City spoke to me as I came out one afternoon.

"h.e.l.lo, Mister."

"h.e.l.lo, young feller."

"Do you work in there?"

"Yes."

"Are you an actor?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

And I couldn't tell him of a single reason.

A SOCIAL SESSION

_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 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 gla.s.s, 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 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."