Then came a War when, bombed and gassed and mined, Truth rose once more, perforce, to meet mankind, And through the dust and glare and wreck of things, Beheld a phantom on unbalanced wings, Reeling and groping, dazed, dishevelled, dumb, But semaphoring direr deeds to come. Truth hailed and bade her stand; the quavering shade, Clung to her knees and babbled, “Sister, aid! I am--I was--thy Deputy, and men Besought me for my useful tongue or pen To gloss their gentle deeds, and I complied, And they, and thy demands, were satisfied. But this--” she pointed o’er the blistered plain, Where men as Gods and devils wrought amain-- “This is beyond me! Take thy work again.” Tablets and pen transferred, she fled afar, And Truth assumed the record of the War.... She saw, she heard, she read, she tried to tell Facts beyond precedent and parallel-- Unfit to hint or breathe, much less to write, But happening every minute, day and night. She called for proof. It came. The dossiers grew. She marked them, first, “Return. This can’t be true.” Then, underneath the cold official word: “This is not really half of what occurred.” She faced herself at last, the story runs, And telegraphed her sister: “Come at once. Facts out of hand. Unable overtake Without your aid. Come back for Truth’s own sake! Co-equal rank and powers if you agree. _They need us both, but you far more than me!_” A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY There had been rather a long sitting at Lodge “Faith and Works,” 5837 E. C., that warm April night. Three initiations and two raisings, each conducted with the spaciousness and particularity that our Lodge prides itself upon, made the Brethren a little silent and the strains of certain music had not yet lifted from them. “There are two pieces that ought to be barred for ever,” said a Brother as we were sitting down to the “banquet.” “‘Last Post’ is the other.” “I can just stand ‘Last Post.’ It’s ‘Tipperary’ breaks me,” another replied. “But I expect every one carries his own firing-irons inside him.” I turned to look. It was a sponsor for one of our newly raised Brethren--a fat man with a fish-like and vacant face, but evidently prosperous. We introduced ourselves as we took our places. His name was Bevin, and he had a chicken farm near Chalfont-St.-Giles, whence he supplied, on yearly contract, two or three high-class London hotels. He was also, he said, on the edge of launching out into herb-growing. “There’s a demand for herbs,” said he; “but it all depends upon your connections with the wholesale dealers. _We_ ain’t systematic enough. The French do it much better, especially in those mountains on the Swiss an’ Italian sides. They use more herbal remedies than we do. Our patent-medicine business has killed that with us. But there’s a demand still, if your connections are sound. I’m going in for it.”