The stars were bright,
The air was crisp,
And the moon shown all around.

I sensed wood smoke,
I winced and turned,
No embers could be found.

I was alone.
Yet sure to you,
I heard the campers' sound.

A few moments more,
An old gent' approached,
In a hat quite worn and brown.

He asked about
Those beads of mine,
Loosly on my neck around.

He asked how heavy
Those tiny beads were,
And if I was Scouting-bound.

I replied "my, yes,
They're very light,
Just specs on my neck", resound

He ceased his talk.
He turned away,
Disappearing without a sound.

I called and searched.
I listened for more,
But nowhere was he found.

But often I've thought
Of that strange walk
On the hallowed Training Ground.

Of the little old man,
The crimpled Scout coat,
His stave, his hat, his frown.

And the ache of those beads,
Much heavier now,
And the problems that abound.

But some things are sure,
(It amazes me still)
From that night on the Training Ground;

That despite what we've done,
We've only begin...
The Chief is ever around,

And he talks with us yet,
When our goals we've set...
On the Gilwell Training Ground.