The Fisher
He used to stand there daily, Hunched like a heron on the touchline, Peering abstractedly into some private River of thought. Then one day, Addressing no one in particular, He said, " That fellow there " The referee pounded down field Cursing his weight and the small boys That darted exuberantly round him.
"—That fellow there was in my House once, " A charming boy ; in his way—"
He paused to choose the astonishing.
Word dispassionately, " In his own way, beautiful."
Wiping his brow where the thinning Hair flopped in his eyes, The ref, snatching a breather, Whistled a penalty. Goal !
The small boys cheered and the ref Flung us a casual wave As he trotted past: " He's Housemaster now." The old man Jerked his remark to the surface, Holding it, as it were, speared For inspection. " He's Housemaster now."
He relished the titbit slowly, Then turned again to his fishing, Peering abstractedly into the depths while the wind Ruffled his ancient plumage.
M. STANIER.
Previous page
