28 JULY 1923, Page 13

POETRY.

MR. BOND.

HE was so very deep in woodland lore,

So skilled with brain and old, meticulous hands, We children ran beside him to adore, And searched with him for hidden fairylands.

He'd imitate the growling of a bear, 'A strutting cock, the gait of ad old hen ;

He knew the stars, the laws of what-grew-where, The strategy for leaden soldier-men.

And when, next door, he lay with heaving breast For tortured hours—whose end was sure, they said— We stopped the clocks whose chime might break his rest, And left our toys, and played at being dead. ERIC CIIILMAN.