12 SEPTEMBER 1924, Page 13

POETRY.

LOST.

WHEN the boy knocked at our door, looking in,

We remember now that we spoke to him timidly, Kept him waiting in the porch, While we busied ourselves within over a fitting reception.

When we called him, We found the porch empty.

Hop-vines and ivy trembled there, A frame lacking its picture.

Nor can any tell us Whether he ran along the road or the field-path.

IRIS BARRY.