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."
* * * * *
Illustration: UNRECORDED EVENTS IN THE HISTORY OF THE WAR.