VI.

See the man. He is wav-ing his arm. Why does he do that?

He has lost his ball and is mo-tion-ing for the play-ers be-hind him to play through.

O, yes. Here they come. But see, the man has found his ball and is play-ing it.

Yes, that’s a com-mon trick. Let us hope some-body will hit the man in the bean.

A LINE-O’-GOWF OR TWO

_Hew to the Line, let the divots fall where they may._

THE LADY GOLFER.

When lovely woman whacks the pellet, Though fair as Helen’s be her face, Her golfing form (I grieve to tell it) Is very far removed from grace. The way she stands, her every motion, Suggest the airy dinosaur: She sways, she lifts, she heaves like ocean— _Ma chère, vous devriez la voir!_

* * * * *

The Oklahoma Times refers editorially to the Nineteenth Amendment. The editor, it is conjectured, is probably a golfer, and has confused the amendment with the hole.

* * * * *

Society over here doesn’t make much of golf. For one thing, all sorts of people play it; then there isn’t much chance to exhibit millinery, while to watch a match one has to walk three or four miles. It is easier to pretend an interest in tennis.

* * * * *

Golf seems a great waste of time, until you see a man shooting at clay pigeons or starting off to attend an automobile race.

* * * * *

We believe we have discovered a method of hitting a golf ball with certainty and precision, and we pass it on to the great army of toppers. You know what you do; you step up to the ball apprehensively and hit it timidly and ineffectively. Then, when it hop-skips into the rough you waste all manner of epithets on it. The language is all right, but it is applied at the wrong time.

Try this; tee the ball, stand over it threateningly, and glare at it balefully. As you swing back, say, between shut teeth, “You pock-marked”—the adjective brings you to the top of the swing, when you pause an instant to gather all your energy. Then apply the noun—any you may fancy—at the same time smiting the ball as if it were the head of a rattler.

The secret of the method is a maximum of concentration. Your malignant gaze has never left the ball. It is surprising the distance you get—if you don’t smash your club. Even that’s better than topping.

THE COMPULSION OF HABIT.

Sir: Gentleman with two golf clubs in his hand stepped into an elevator in the Railroad Exchange. After the car started up he yelled “Four!” The man standing in front of him ducked his head.

E. F. W.

* * * * *

Meditating on the fact that the English have beaten the Scotch at their own game of golf, a correspondent writes, “Is there, in the whole history of games, another case like this?” Sure. There’s polo. It originated in Asia.

* * * * *

We do not wish to add to the already extensive list of words and phrases used in writing of golf, but it occurs to us that “led the field” would be a serviceable phrase in reporting a qualifying round.

* * * * *

Suggestion to crack golfers: Why not get photographed in the act of finishing a drive?

* * * * *

“Keep your eye on the ball,” writes Arthur Taylor, the w. k. golfer. And he adds, quizzically; “Which eye?” It makes a difference.

* * * * *

Speaking of golf (which we do on the slightest encouragement) the _Pall Mall Gazette_ has been considering the best hole in a choice of 50,000. The experts do not agree, naturally, but they do agree that the best “blind hole” is the Alps hole at Prestwich.

At a meeting of 10,000 Chicago golfers, it was agreed that the most attractive hole was the nineteenth.

* * * * *

In his preface to his book, “The New Golf,” P. A. Vaile writes: “Unless one can play, or at least talk intelligently about golf, one has to miss about three-quarters of the conversation in any country club—and many other places in America.” That were indeed a deprivation.

As for the instruction in the book; the essence of it is that one should grip the club tightly and think of nothing except hitting the ball. Sound advice; there is no better. It is almost impossible to explain the golf stroke because of its simplicity. One might write a book explaining how to swim, but if the novice persisted in throwing up his hands he would go under. Similarly, if the golf novice persists in attacking the ball in a complex and unnatural manner, elaborate treatises on the simplicity of golf will do him no good.

A large part of Mr. Vaile’s book is taken up in pooh-poohing the theories of other writers, which are for the most part pooh-poohable. The question arises, what would Mr. Vaile and the others do for material if the game were not enveloped in mystery, and the simplest club shot considered as solemnly as the ordination of a bishop?

* * * * *

A golf bag that does not require a caddy is among the season’s novelties. It is, we assume, so contrived that every now and then it slams itself on the ground with sufficient force to break the shaft of the driver or brassie.

* * * * *

A popular fallacy, usually cherished by the missus, is that a man can get as much physical good from weeding a garden as from playing eighteen holes of golf.

* * * * *

From Milwaukee comes the regret that we have deserted the r. and a. game for a mere automobile. We found that hauling on a wheel ruined the delicacy of our approaching game.

* * * * *

Nineteenth Hole has a yarn to tell. His opponent drove a ball under a low-limbed thorn apple, and as he crawled into the thicket on his tum, N. H. said j. l. t. “Keep your head down!”

* * * * *

There is nothing surprising in the news that a caddy found a diamond necklace on the links. A caddy is likely to find anything except the thing you pay him to keep an eye on.

A GREAT GAME.

Sir: A tall youth who golfs (by courtesy) at Jaxon park has a wig-wag and swing which suggests a combination of St. Vitus, tango, and locomotor ataxia. As he was teeing off with much ceremony the other day a Scotch devotee of the game remarked: “’Tis a great game! There’s a mon who gets a’ there is in it. Before he heets the ba’ he’s used every mooscle in his body except his ears.”

R. H. C.

* * * * *

“Near Golf Links”—Ad of a South Haven resort. Obviously, again, a hyphen is missing.

* * * * *

“Play golf on perfect links”—Railroad ad. There ain’t no sich thing.

* * * * *

It is never too late to learn. From their more recent disquisitions we observe that professional golfers are learning something about the game, and are advocating methods precisely the reverse of their former instruction.

ADDRESSING THE BALL.

I do not like the Colonel’s camp, Because I hate a crowd; The language there would light a lamp, And all the talk is loud.

I do not like the Taftian camp, Its atmosphere is ghoulish; The language there is dull and damp, And all the talk is foolish.

I do not like a hue and cry, I do not like a pall, A plague on both your camps, say I— _Hey, Caddy! Watch that ball!_

* * * * *

“The revolutionists hold much of southern Finland along the Finnish golf,” reports the Minneapolis Journal. And A. E. B. thinks it must be annoying to have those seaside links cluttered up with Bullsheviki, Red Guards, and other things.

* * * * *

The difference between a summer member and a regular member of a golf club is that the summer member does not enjoy the privilege of paying dues during the winter.

GOLF ATHLETES.

Sir: As a fellow sport will you kindly assist me to hand a few remarks to those people who speak of golfers as “athletes.” Athlete is an over-worked word, anyhow, and to tack golfers on to its tail, is about the limit. To my notion golf is a game fit only for ladies and doddering old men. You are at liberty to give my address to any golf “athlete” who thinks he would like to “take a fall” out of me.—Buck (_Ex-champion tiddlediwinks athlete._)

* * * * *

One or two professionals have admitted that when you look at the hole in putting the ball keeps wonderfully on the line, but they think they sense the distance better by looking at the ball.

FOOTNOTES TO BAEDEKER.

At Kingston, Sept. 2, 1912.

Between the fort and the town sprawls the links of the Barifield Golf Club, as “sporty” a course as you please. I remarked a clubhouse and a number of putting greens; for the rest one plays anywhere across the rock-strewn landscape. Wire fences surround the putting greens, on which the grass is tall and thick. A herd of cows were cropping the fairgreens and these I took to be members of the Greens Committee. Although it was Saturday afternoon, only two players were on the links, and they, as long as they remained in view, were searching for balls among the myriad stones of the hillside.

* * * * *

At Manchester, Vermont, we were the honored guests of Dr. P. Sibleius Ferus, the distinguished Latin scholar and gentleman. An evening’s conversation with Dr. Ferus is as stimulating as I conceive an evening with Dr. Middleton to have been. I also shot a round of golf with the doctor on the links of the Ekwanok Club—the most beautiful course I ever expect to see. The score? No matter.

* * * * *

It was a new experience to play golf among the mountains. It is a passionate golfer who can disregard the distracting views from the tees and regard the ball as raptly as certain Hindu gentlemen contemplate their equators. Upon the flat and smoky links on the south side of Chicago concentration is easy. The ball is the handsomest object in sight. There, too, it seems a more important matter than among the mountains. Of course one may look at it this way: A golf ball is a symbol of infinity; it is as perfect a sphere as Aldebaran; the power that sends it winging is one with the power that moves the stars in their courses; the laws that govern its flight and trajectory are as immutable as the laws that bind Arcturus and his sons. The trouble is, if you get to thinking in that groove while addressing the ball you are apt to laugh, and that spoils your drive.

* * * * *

Chicago golfers who may have played around the links of the Claremont Country Club of Oakland, will agree that the course may be classified as “sporty” especially in August. The earth is baked hard and the turf burnt brown, and the ball, however driven, runs like a kangaroo. If the drive deviates from the straight and narrow path the ball rolls down hill to heaven and the caddy knows where. One usually aims ten or more points to the right or left of the flag; and so many shots must be played off steep slopes that a man with one leg six inches shorter than the other would have a decided advantage over the conventionally legged player.

* * * * *

A writer in _Drover’s Journal_ remarks that we are “trying to tell Jerry Travers how to play golf.” The gentleman is wrong, as usual; we should assume to teach a duck how to swim. But putting is a department of golf in which one man’s opinion is as good as another’s.

A child cannot drive a ball 250 yards, but a child can putt better than a number of gentlemen we know who have been playing golf for years—provided the child is permitted to function naturally, as when it plays croquet.

When a seasoned player, distant only a dozen feet from the cup, can putt a ball a yard to the right or left of the hole, it shows that something is practically wrong. Yet one sees such pathetic exhibitions of inaptitude on every green.

SPEAKING OF PUTTING.

“Putts and calls are the safest and surest method of trading in wheat, corn or oats, because your loss is absolutely limited to the amount bought.”—Ad.

Keep your eye on the pit!

* * * * *

In _Golf Illustrated_, Mr. Francis Ouimet writes that when, in his approach putt, he runs by the cup only eight feet, he is more confident of holing the next putt than if the approach had been three or four feet short? When a man overruns the cup eight feet, would you call that sensing the distance?

THE SEVENTEENTH OF MARCH.

Sir: Apropos of the day, likewise apropos of one of your hobbies, it might interest you to know that golf as a game is of Irish origin, having been played by Cuchullian, a personality who figures largely in Irish heroic literature. In fact, it is said that the snakes left Ireland because of an unsuccessful attempt of a kind old mother snake to hatch a consignment of golf balls which she mistook for eggs. Whereupon she rallied all her ilk and they betook themselves to a land more suitable for incubating purposes.

T. O’D.

KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE HOLE!

Sir: If I fail to hold my place on the team this year, it will be because your eye-on-the-hole stuff has made a good putterer out of a mediocre putter, and the crime will rest upon your colyum.

FARTHEST NORTH.

Stick to it, old man, and you’ll come out all right. Two eminent psychologists have assured us that our theory is absolutely sound, and we’d rather have their opinion than that of Harry Vardon, who confesses that he doesn’t know anything about putting.

HAPPY HINTS FOR GLOOMY GOLFERS.

A large percentage of golf gloom arises from slicing. A golfer’s idea of hell is to stand on a hot tee for a million years and slice balls out of bounds. The chronic slicer is a wretched figure and he falls as low as he can when, giving up hope of ever hitting a straight ball, he aims a quarter of a mile to the left of the flag.

There are at least seven causes of slicing. The commonest is the vicious practice of bringing the clubhead down outside the line of the ball’s flight. This imparts a rotary motion to the ball, and the flight of it describes a crescent. You do this nine times out of ten. But do not despair; we can help you. We can teach you to hit inside the line.

Buy from a commission merchant a basket of very, very bad eggs, and give these to the caddy to carry. When you tee your ball, or come up to it on the fairgreen, place an egg about three inches away from the ball and an inch or so back of it. Now swing, being careful to keep the clubhead from straying beyond the line, otherwise you will smash the egg and scatter the malodorous contents. Before a dozen eggs are broken you will quit slicing or be asked to resign from the club.

If the egg remedy fails, procure a piece of dynamite and use that instead. This will effect a permanent cure.

* * * * *

L. E. B. says his wife claims to be a Class A-plus golf widow. When she passes to her reward she hopes it will be early in the week, so the incident will not interfere with husband’s Sunday golf.

* * * * *

Florence quotes from one of H. G. Wells’s slams at golf, concluding with, “The uglier a man’s legs are, the better he plays golf.”

“I play a beastly game,” adds Florence; “how about you?” Oh, a regular Chippendale of a game, my dear.

* * * * *

Sir: I am sure I saw her on the golf course one windy day. We offer her the privilege of our course for entire season if she will agree to keep herself in shape.

CHAIRMAN ENTERTAINMENT COMMITTEE.

* * * * *

The consensus of our readers seems to be that the maiden whose legs are “noticeably bowed” should take up golf, as she would likely develop a peach of a game.

* * * * *

Sir: Sunday I looked at the hole and missed the putt. At the nineteenth hole I looked at the ball four times and was then eighty cents in the hole.

C. S. P.

ASIDES.

Davy: A light golf ball (floater) will rise fifteen or twenty feet higher than a heavy ball. A light ball should always be used when you have to “hold the green.”

L. V. B. Your experience coincides with that of many people. Putting cannot be taught; not because it is too hard, but because it is too easy. It is like instructing a duck in the art of natation.

* * * * *

After a round of golf a man might acquire a reputation for originality by announcing, in the locker room, that “at this time of year the shower bath is the best part of the game.”

* * * * *

“I must have looked up,” said our friend, A. E. D., as he replaced a divot. And he added: “Why don’t we have a list of such remarks, numbered to save time?” “Why not, indeed?” said we, who are nothing if not helpful. And so we offer a short list which golfers may extend as they wish:

1. “I must have looked up.”

2. “I tried to knock the cover off.”

3. “I should have used an iron.”

4. Omitted to avoid confusion with “Fore!”

5. “High like a house.”

6. “Some drive, that!”

With such a list agreed on, when a man topped his driver he would merely ejaculate, “Two!” and sit down.

* * * * *

All true golfers believe in a golf hereafter. Brand Whitlock was okaying St. Andrews with a famous “pro” who remarked, of a certain putting green, that there was none larger or finer, and Whitlock’s aged caddy added: “Not in this world.”

* * * * *

One of the pleasures of playing golf at Old Elm is a notable absence of small bets in the matches such as a ball a hole or a piffling “syndicate.” Old Elm golfers play for blank cheques.

* * * * *

A gentleman writes us that our look-at-the-hole theory works all right in practice, but breaks down in actual play. We beg to assure him that that is his fault not the theory’s. The test of every stroke is what you do with it in practice, when the muscles are relaxed and you function almost mechanically.

Frexample, the Worthington Ball Company does not employ a crack golfer to test its products; it has a mechanical driver at its plant in Ohio. If the ball flies straight they know it is perfectly round; if one brand flies farther than another, they know that that is the longest ball. There is nothing “psychological” about it.

FAR FROM THE M. C.

The Thrasher, on a leafless bough High in a maple tree, Pours forth, as only he knows how, A song of ecstasy.

The sunbeams thro’ the branches sift Upon the putting green, Aloft the fleecy cloudlets drift, The morning is serene.

In town strong men are in the heat Of party politics; The air is filled with “Lie” and “Cheat,” And other verbal tricks.

The Thrasher sings for song’s own sake; I share his ecstasy. I have a longish putt to make, And hole it for a three.

* * * * *

As bearing on the great obsession we may note that of the twelve volumes added to the library of the Union League Club of Chicago, “since the last report,” eight were about golf.

* * * * *

Casually glancing at a ladies’ tournament, we observed that while the follow-through of the players was open to criticism, the show-through was perfect.

* * * * *

When a lady golfer cries “Fore!” the safe thing to do is to step between her and the flag and call, “Shoot!”

* * * * *

An English writer having asserted that golf is a nerve-wrecking game, the Interstate Medical Record welcomes discussion of the subject, as a change from the eternal debate on sex and neurasthenia. Now, for several years, we have made a rather close study of golf and golfers, and we are well assured that golf as a health-giving recreation is a greatly overlauded institution.

We will consider, now, only the person with a nervous temperament: for him, golf is decidedly not a restful game. The failure to bring off a shot that he knows perfectly well how to play, due to the refusal of the muscles to obey the instructions of the mind, sets up an irritation conscious or subconscious, that more than offsets the good derived from a round on the links.

If golf works this way on a man who knows why he bungles a stroke, imagine what it does to the man who can’t tell what ails him, and must make periodic visits to the golf doctors to have his affliction diagnosed.

* * * * *

The best thing about golf is that it cultivates patience and perseverance. But so does the telephone.

WE SYMPATHIZE AND UNDERSTAND.

Sir: I feel that I have an indisputable right to wail at your wailing place. I am being ridiculed and relentlessly persecuted by various amateur golfer friends because, forsooth, I have dared to defend your theory of k. y. e. o. t. h.

Please assure me of at least your sympathy and understanding.

R. E. P.

P. S. I do not golf.

* * * * *

Much may be made of a golfer if he be caught young. After he has played a few years, you can’t tell him anything.

* * * * *

Speaking of “golf and athletic sports” a dispatch from New York mentions “precious stones and jewels.”

THE TRAINING OF CADDIES.

Sir: Didn’t that English writer who implied that we were committing an economical sin by training caddies to become a class worthless except as boys of burden, exaggerate things somewhat? Frinstance! At Jackson Park one day a caddie made a perfectly good nurse girl while the father and mother of the child played eighteen holes of golf. I can vouch for this, as I was nearby when the brave bag-bearer decided that pushing a baby buggy was not beneath his dignity.

R. H. C.

* * * * *

A sure-fire recipe for cooling off:

Eighteen holes of golf. One long cold shower. One long cold ginger ale (flavored).

* * * * *

Jackson Park society note: Applications for lockers at the Golf shelter clubhouse should be made to-day—Mr. Jim McGinnis will assist in receiving the guests, and the weather man has promised to pour.

* * * * *

Query by the _Golfer’s Magazine_. “Does golf cause men to neglect their wives?”

Not being a golfiac, we cannot say, but if the answer is in the affirmative, the wives must be singularly unattractive.

* * * * *

Is there another bore comparable with the man who is just learning golf? He bores the friend who was so foolish as to show him the game. He bores the good souls who are kind enough to play around with him. He bores his family and all his acquaintances. And finally (if able to view himself objectively) he bores himself.

* * * * *

If we had not made a vow never again to parody “The Ancient Mariner” we might easily turn one on the golfiac who holds you with his glittering eye. But it would be a shame to do it.

* * * * *

“When you have practised with your mashie on the various golf courses around Chicago,” writes L. T., “and have hit a foot behind the ball and splashed mud all over you and into your mouth, have you ever decided which are the best tasting links?” Well, we fancy the Skokie pot bunkers, though the Glen View links are uncommonly rich. We usually eat with a niblick.

* * * * *

It may not be possible to write an interesting baseball story in ordinary English but it is possible in the case of Golf. The articles by Mr. Darwin in the W. G. N. are uncommonly interesting. He was not long in discovering that American players are weak with their irons, as any one with half an eye can see. This weakness is due to over swinging and to lack of instruction. Visit any golf club and watch the members play. Men who have played for years are content to dub around in ninety something. It is pathetic. The self-taught golfer moves us to tears.

* * * * *

Golf in itself is not an important thing, but if a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well. It is worth doing gracefully, too, unless nature has denied a man all sense of rhythm, which seldom happens.

UPLIFTING THE CADDIE.

Gratifying is the response to the inquiry, “What should be done to occupy, instruct, or amuse the caddie during the long waits?”

Sir: What shall be done is asked, to occupy, amuse or instruct the caddie during the long waits? Why, teach them to caddie, of course! One of ’em, at the Homeward links, planted himself at the side of each green, and whistled “On the Mississippi” while we were trying to putt. Obviously, it can’t be done—to that tune!

F. D.

F. W. P. “During those long waits, sift the caddie for golf balls. I think I know where you can get a new one if you hurry.”

C. P. S. “I always improve the time by reading to my caddies from ‘How to Keep Well.’”

E. McC. “Started by handing him the W. G. N. folded so the Line alone was visible. He calmly informed me that he read it every morning before eating, and after breakfast he looked at Brigg’s picture and read the baseball news. Then with a sly look, he remarked: ‘I ain’t seen you make it yet.’ Now, you got me into this, and it is up to you to reinstate me in the good opinion of my caddie—if he ever had a good one.”

E. E. R. “Uplifting one to-day, I found him standing on my perfectly good Black Circle.”

J. M. W. “Since school began, a small boy who hitherto had been a ‘model of a pupil,’ has been brought before the principal three times for using ‘the most terrible language.’ Questioned as to how he had spent his vacation, the miscreant confessed that he had caddied on a local golf course. The principal suggests that caddies be supplied with earmuffs, to be worn through the long and profane waits.”

Another way to uplift the caddie is to follow the example of Col. MacDonald of Edgewater and blow the boys to a good feed and a little good will.

JUST AS YOU SAY.

Sir: Asked my caddie his views, and he suggested shorter hours and higher pay. I guess it is about time to drop the subject.

A. McC.

_POPULAR GOLF MAGAZINE PAGE._

_THE AMERICAN GOLFER._

Practical Suggestions.

When you are put up at a club and invited to sign a friend’s name for anything you desire, always provide yourself with a hard pencil. It lasts longer.

Some players, not many, replace divots; but it is better to disregard them, as the cavity prepared with your iron leaves an ideal brassey lie for a following player.

After driving into the party ahead, the correct explanation is: “I didn’t think I was going so far.”

Always use a wooden club on a caddy. A niblick is too messy.

Before pocketing a ball lost by another player it is well to wait until the ball has stopped rolling.

* * * * *

A character in one of Mr. Thomas’ plays remarks that there is nothing less worth watching than a bum game of billiards. But at Ormond Beach a gallery watched Mr. Rockefeller play a round of golf.

For a certain golfer A word sufficed. And the less they told him The more he sliced.

A LINE-O’-GOWF OR TWO

_Hew to the Line, let the divots fall where they may._

MR. LEGION.

He belongs to several golf clubs, he is keen about the game. You would fancy that the pastime was his being’s end and aim. He plays in all the tourneys, but (the mystery to me!) He always takes an iron when he stands upon the tee.

* * * * *

If we Americans took good government as seriously as we take the game of golf, we might hope to overhaul the millennium.

* * * * *

Whether in his relations to others or in the game of golf, almost everybody tries to do too much at one time. So from now to the end of the year we shall attempt but two things—(1) to be kind to those around us; and (2) to learn how to use a mashie. Fore!

* * * * *

Fine distinctions are being drawn between amateur and professional golfers. In the case of the amateur one may occasionally be in doubt, but we can always tell a professional by the way he handles his iron clubs.

* * * * *

To throw coal accurately into the furnace, reports R. E. T., after experimenting, you must keep your eye on the opening, stand “open” and use a pendulum swing. Correct. And in order to get the coal to the back of the furnace you must have a free follow-through. A jerky stroke piles the coal near the door.

* * * * *

Many golfers are setting out for the so-called sunny southland, where for two or three months, they will hook and slice with all their clubs, and pitch balls with a mashie in every direction except toward the flag. We say nothing about the wooden club, but the fluffed iron shot always evokes our compassion. Sooner than persist in such ineptitude we’d arrange our implements in a neat pile, pour kerosene on them, and strike a match.

* * * * *

There may be more than one way to get a straight ball with an iron, but there is at least one way. All the player need keep in mind are two things, instead of the conventional baker’s dozen. And the first of these is that his right elbow must be in contact with his body throughout the swing until the ball is struck. The second essential is that the knuckles of his right hand must be underneath when the ball is struck. If these two items of a complicated matter are attended to the other eleven will give less and less trouble. What a dub needs is a short cut. There it is. Keep the change.

* * * * *

Golf, says Mr. Taft, is a great boon to humanity. It is indeed. It not only “takes you out in the open air,” but it consumes so much time that you haven’t much left for making speeches and putting your foot in it. Every politician should play golf. Col. Lewis, for example, should swap his pen for a midiron.

* * * * *

Despite the pleasant words said of Mr. Wilson’s golf game his scores probably have to be taken out and buried, as G. Ade expresses it. It may be that he is like the gentleman whom he appointed Minister to Belgium. We were playing with the Hon. Brand, and things weren’t going well. He related an experience at St. Andrews. After he had shot five or six holes, he asked the caddie what he thought of his game—“Aweel,” said the bag-bearer, gloomily, “you have a grand style, but nae luck.”

* * * * *

We have located the man who was first on the links of the Jackson Park Country Club. He got there at three A.M. Sunday morning, and, it being too early to play, he curled up in a rocker and went to sleep. He slept so soundly that when he woke up the starter had given out two hundred tickets.

THE PILL.

The man who peddles sassafras May herald Gentle Spring; The red-breast or the greening grass A promise o’t may bring; But I know Spring is on the bound And leaping o’er the hills When Old Doc Prentiss gets around With a pocketful of pills.

He takes one from its paper coat, A globe of glossy white: “Now, that will roll right to the hole, And has a screaming flight. Take one each day and soak it good, And slam it through the air; You’ll get relief from every grief, And every cark and care.”

Sure harbinger of Spring, is Doc, With pocket full of pills, The which I’m sure will quickly cure My winter’s store of ills. And when the grasses show less sere, And softer grow the skies, I’ll bid farewell to every fear And wipe my weeping eyes.

* * * * *

In quest of a certain volume of golf scripture we visited the Crerar Library in Chicago. Mr. Andrews, the librarian, apologized for the lack of scripture on his shelves, saying that the Public Library had agreed to take over all amusements. Amusement, forsooth! Golf is a religion, a disease, a fixed idea, a state of mind, a system of metaphysics, what you will—but _not_ an amusement. And Mr. Andrews himself a golfer!

* * * * *

When a man has to be coaxed into a golf game he is tired.

GOLF ILLUSIONS.

Perhaps the greatest illusion about golf is that it is a sociable game. The fact is, that, next to solitaire, golf is the most unsociable game that man has invented. One of many such stories tells of two Scotchmen, brothers, who played together in perfect silence up to the twelfth hole, when one of them let fall a trifling remark; whereupon the other flew into a passion, declaring that his brother’s gabbing had spoiled his day. An exaggeration, but only for artistic purposes. On all golf courses one sees the same twosomes or foursomes going the season through. Players avoid other players as they would the plague. If a round, even with old friends, is played sociably, it is at the expense of the game. Silence and obsequial gloom brood over the putting greens. A match for the president’s cup is a funeral procession. Golf a sociable game? About as sociable as a hand at Canfield in the morgue on a rainy afternoon, in November.

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The second great illusion about golf is that to play par, especially to win important matches, a man must possess a mysterious something called “temperament.” Now, the only comprehensible temperament is what an English writer has happily termed the wooden temperament. Combine this with a maximum amount of skill, and par golf is possible seven days in the week. Golf rhapsodists are fond of declaring that the successful match player must have a great heart, and an indomitable soul, and all that rot; whereas the requirements are great skill and almost perfect muscular control. Great players with the so-called temperament have blown up under pressure; even the wooden temperament is not proof against an occasional loss of muscular control. Harold Hilton won the finals in this country through a fluke; what good would his temperament have done him if his ball had not struck a rock and bounded to the green? A heart as big as an ox is no assistance if skill and luck are lacking, and many an indomitable soul has topped a critical shot. The only really temperamental player is the man whose score fluctuates between eighty and ninety.

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Concerning our giving up smoking, it had to be either that or golf. When a man misses a twenty-five-foot putt he should ask himself whether tobacco is unsettling his nerves.

LOVE’S ANTIDOTE.

(_Miss May Sutton avers that “athletics is an antidote for the poison of premature romance.”_)

Alas for them that played a part In earlier premature romances! The natural history of the heart Is full of their extravagances.

If lovers in the vanished years Had been a trifle more athletic, Full many a tale that wins our tears, Would not be classed with the pathetic.

The pangs which Abelard endured And Heloise’s tears and tingles Might have been very simply cured By half a dozen sets of “singles.”

And Romeo and Juliet Might easily have dodged their troubles, And ended all their fuss and fret By mixing in a game of doubles.

One might go on, but why recite? The simple point that we would pen is, All lovers’ ills may be set right By basketball or golf or tennis.

FORE!

An excellent substitute for golf is swatting flies. Although it does not take one out in the open air, it provides more excitement. The full course may be played over in a nine-room apartment, playing from parlor to kitchen and back again, but good sport may be had in a six-room flat. Four or five slapsticks of varying shapes and widths are all the clubs required, and the following suggestions may be useful to those who wish to take up the new sport.

If the fly is on a table top or other broad surface, a mashie may be used. If on a curtain, use the driver and follow through with stroke; this being the only chance to employ the follow-through. If the fly is on light or expensive wall-paper, take a niblick. This is a difficult shot, as the fly must be lifted clear of the wall, after which he is holed out with the putter.

If the fly is on the side of a valuable vase or other bric-à-brac, the putter and a delicate wrist are required. The swing must be checked the instant the fly is crushed and before the club reaches the china. A coffee cup, such as is found in a quick lunchery, is a good thing to practise on. In fact, that is just the place to practise putting.

HOUSEFLY GOLF.

Sir: On Sunday, after the company had gone, the Missus and I played a twosome of your new game of bughouse golf; but on the first hole—“kitchen”—after a good drive off the sink, I foozled my approach into some water from an overflowing drip pan under the icebox. I claimed a right to lift out of casual water, but wifey said I’d forgotten to empty the pan for several days, and that the puddle constituted a regular hazard. Is she right?[1] Then, on the fourth hole, up the hill over the dining table, I sliced my brassie into the sand pit, alias the sugar bowl, and though I could get out with my mashie the ball went back into the pit again and again and I had to use a baffy spoon. After that I got several bogies, and didn’t blow up till I came to the “nursery,” when I laid my approach shot dead against the kid’s toy balloon. I must have pressed a bit, for I couldn’t find the ball afterward.

G. B. M.

[1] Referred to Mr. Joe Davis.

Sir: Your new “fly” game, as a substitute for golf, should become very popular with those who have had trouble with the old-fashioned outdoor sport. After spending most of my time on hands and knees in the tall grass, peering down gopher holes for eighty-five cent disappearers, I find the new game a refreshing diversion. Have already one good score to submit—

Played the bedrooms in 4, 6, 5, and 3 respectively; parlor, seven; dining-room, five; kitchen, nine; and finished the bathroom in bogey. The flour barrel and range were some trouble, but bunkers add zest to the game. The chandeliers and my wife were mental hazards, which I shall become accustomed to or remove. A friend of mine says the sport is particularly enjoyable out at Calumet, where the flies have nine legs and stand so high they don’t have to be teed. I am open to challenges.

J. H. C.

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“O wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing”—

And, as Arnold Bennett would say, with those cadences singing in his head a man will go out and quarrel with a golf ball.

“Golfers sleep on Grounds.”—LEAD, South Dakota CALL.

Nothing uncommon. Our friend B. L. M. takes a nap over every putt.

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A reader mentions casually that he took sixteen shots for the first hole at Skokie, with three balls in the pond. It doesn’t seem possible. Still, it might be done this way: Three in the pond is six strokes; the seventh was over, the eighth was topped, the ninth was in the bunker; two chops make eleven, out in twelve; thirteenth on the green or thereabouts; and three putts. It’s a great game.

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By sheer nerve a golfer with a handicap of twenty-something played through all the threesomes and foursomes ahead of him, on the Skokie, holding them all back, blowing up the entire course, and putting everybody out of humor. When last seen he was smoking a seegar on the club porch, entirely at peace with himself. It must be great to have a hide like that.

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The cost of golf balls is to be inquired into. For a reasoning creature, man spends an intolerable time in needless investigation. The manufacturers charge a high price for golf balls because they can get it. There is absolutely no other reason.

GOLF NOTE.

Sir: At Wabash and Madison, I noticed a whitewings using the Varden grip on his implement. Is this _au fait_ in the profession.

W. F.

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Golf players talk and write a great deal about the niblick, but they devote hardly any time to practising with that tool. It is considered a comical club.

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The meanest golfer is Pop Royce, who holes a twenty-foot putt, and acts as if he did that sort of thing every day of his life.

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Crack golfers find a week of tournament play physically fatiguing. A dub doesn’t tire so easily. He will play thirty-six holes, day after day, and use up as much energy in one drive as a champ needs for a dozen. Vive le dub!

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Mr. Taft’s gabby caddy explains that the president plays “consistent” golf. That is to say, he does not bring in a poor score one day and a better one the next, but brings a poor one every day. Thus we observe again the influence of the judicial temperament. It’s a grand temperament, but it never sets any links on fire.

THE DEVIL’S DISCIPLE.

The Golfer stood in his room at night, Pitching balls to a padded chair. He could work his mashie _there_ all right, But on the links he was in despair: ’Twas top and sclaff, Till a horse would laugh, And the best he’d get was a measly half. “I never shall learn this game,” quoth he. “_And I’d tell my soul for a seventy-three!_”

No sooner said, on this fatal night, Than the Devil walked in, with a bow polite. “Pledge me your soul, my friend,” said he, “And to-morrow you’ll shoot a seventy-three. Don’t think at all Of stance or grip; Just swat the ball, And let ’er rip. Leave it to me, I’ll turn the trick; _You_ pin your faith to your Uncle Nick.” “Done!” said the Golfer—“gladly, too.” “You’re on,” said the Devil. “Good-night to you.” Next day, when “Mac” drove off the tee For the first long hole, he was down in three; And every other, or near or far, Was played, somehow, in exactly par. He sliced, he hooked, he sclaffed, he topped, But somehow or other he always copped. If he hit a bunker he blundered o’er, And rolled to the pin for an easy four. Over the green, or short, or up, He trickled the next one to the cup. Once, when he pulled to a bunker tall, Which promised to grab and hold the ball, A caddie said, as he rubbed his eye, That a _hoof_ had carromed the pellet by; But none suspected, who saw it kick, ’Twas the cloven hoof of your Uncle Nick. Hole by hole, To the eighteenth goal, Walked the man who had sold his soul; Drive and iron, and pitch and poke, Till, matching his card, his friends went broke. For, adding his score, they found that he Had shot the course in a _seventy-three_!

Whether his bargain he ought to rue Depends of course on the point of view. At least “Mac’s” happier now by far Than when he was eighteen under par. He never worries about the trade, Or ever gives it a thought at all: And the only sign of the pact he made Is a puff of smoke where he hits the ball.

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Envy not the men who go south in the winter to continue their golf. They miss the pleasure of waiting for spring days and greening turf. Besides, the more they play the less eradicable become their bad habits.

IN THE WAKE OF THE WAKE.

A stretch of greensward fringed with the morning shadows of oaks and maples; a reach of swampland gay with the colors of October; a flash of tardy songbirds drifting south, reluctant still to go; a small lagoon glittering like steel in the sunlight; a slender shaft rising and falling rhythmically; a click, followed by the graceful flight of a small white sphere that falls obediently upon a square of velvet green—

Oh, shucks! Don’t forget to register.

SCIENCE AND INVENTION.

The Chronomatic Golf Ball is another neat little invention of Prof. B. House of the University of Iowa. It is used only in driving, the object being to avoid the loss of so many balls. The device consists of clockwork imbedded in an ordinary golf ball, which clockwork is set to allow for the time in walking from tee to the end of drive.

Modus operandi: On stroke from club (impact on plunger) the machinery starts. At the expiration of five minutes—or whatever time is allowed for in the setting—a bell rings. The ball is then officially a “lost ball,” but it is actually recovered, the owner being able to follow the sound. Ringing continues until ball is found.

WHY IS IT—

That a golf ball knocked out of bounds into high weeds is frequently findable, while one that lies along the course in short grass will elude the most patient search?

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After the golf scientists finish the fascinating study of the pronation of the left hand and forearm, we wish they would take up the matter of rhythm, which is the fundamental law of golf, as it is the law of the almost as interesting universe. An ounce of rhythm is worth a pound of pronation.

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The “slow back-swing” comes highly recommended, but its only value is that the dub does not fight himself quite so violently at the top of his swing; his mind is a blank for a shorter space of time. Why a back-swing at all? Why not take stance, turn the body, adjust the club back of the head, and then, when all is set, swat the ball? We have driven dozens of balls that way. It is not beautiful, but it is better than the jerky, snatchy, spasmodic swipe of the average golf player.

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Miss Kaiser was defeated in the finals of the woman’s tournament, and Mr. Krupp got as far as the finals at Sandusky. Mr. Rainwater won in the finals at Atlanta. He must be, as Joe Davis allows, a casual player.

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In the accounts of important golf tournaments we read, in every other paragraph, about the terrific strain; and if the winner does not “crack under the strain” he is hailed as a person of wonderful nerve and the possessor of a lion heart. We wonder whether the writers, who themselves are players, do not exaggerate this strain stuff. Golf is a good deal a matter of taking pains, and if a person is exceedingly keen to win he will not play carelessly. The concentration which care brings, more than offsets, we are sure, any strain. One plays best when alone on the links, or in a close competition; one plays worst in a “friendly game,” especially if the friend is an inferior player.

Ouimet won against Varden by eliminating the Englishman from his consciousness; to all purposes he was playing solitaire. Travis, whose heart is assayed one hundred percent leonine, walks the links in a trance; he, too, is alone.

If you go out to play a friendly game do not expect a score. If this is necessary to your happiness, erase your friend from your mind at the outset and restore him on the final green. It will not be sociable, but golf is not a sociable game.

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If you received an invitation to take a shot on the new golf course at the Elgin State hospital of Illinois, you probably remarked: “Yes, I’m crazy about golf, but not enough to go to Elgin.”

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Mr. Evans, the well-known “Chick,” reports that golf is played very seriously by the patients at Elgin. This is remarkable as showing that, in one respect, there is no difference between the persons inside and those outside.

LET THE DIVOTS FALL WHERE THEY MAY.

Sir: Golf enthusiasts will be interested to read in Timothy iv., 7: “I have fought the good fight. I have finished the course.”

G. A. G.

(THE LAST LINE OF ALL.)

You know the infallible sign of spring: father on the back porch, cleaning last fall’s mud from his golf shoes.

B. L. T.