upposed to have come from
one of the ships of the Armada). It is a different kind of Armada that
Woodbridge has to reckon with nowadays. Zeppelins. One dropped a
bomb--"dud" it was--in John Loder's garden; the old man had to be
restrained from running out to seize it with his own hands.

John Loder was born in Woodbridge, August 3, 1825. His grandfather,
Robert Loder, founded the family bookselling and printing business,
which continues to-day at the old shop on the Thoroughfare under John
Loder's son, Morton Loder. In the days before the railway came through,
Woodbridge was the commercial centre for a large section of East
Suffolk; it was a busy port, and the quays were crowded with shipping.
But when transportation by rail became swift and cheap and the provinces
began to deal with London merchants, the little town's prosperity
suffered a sad decline. Many of the old Woodbridge shops, of several
generations' standing, have had to yield to local branches of the great
London "stores." In John Loder's boyhood the book business was at its
best. Woodbridgians were great readers, and such prodigal customers as
FitzGerald did much to keep the ledgers healthy. John left school at
thirteen or so, to learn the trade, and became the traditional printer's
devil. He remembered Bernard Barton, the quiet, genial, brown-eyed poet,
coming down the street from Alexander's Bank (where he was employed for
forty years) with a large pile of banknotes to be renumbered. The poet
sat perched on a high stool watching young Loder and his superior do the
work. And at noon Mr. Barton sent out to the Royal Oak Tavern near by
for a basket of buns and a jug of stout to refresh printer and devil at
their work.

Bernard Barton died in 1849, and was kid to rest in the little Friends'
burying ground in Turn Lane. That quiet acre will repay the visitor's
half-hour tribute to old mortality. My grandmother was buried there, one
snowy day in January, 1912, and I remember how old John Loder came
forward to the grave, bareheaded and leaning on his stick, to drop a
bunch of fresh violets on the coffin.

Many a time I have sat in the quiet, walled-in garden of Burkitt
House--that sweet plot of colour and fragrance so pleasantly
commemorated by Mr. Mosher in his preface to "In Praise of Old
Gardens"--and heard dear old John Loder tell stories of his youth. I
remember the verse of Herrick he used to repeat, pointing round his
little retreat with a well-stained