Chapter L: D. Ray underwent a minor operation at Rockford hospital Sunday

* * * * *

Time to put away your golf tools. Navigation on the Yukon river has closed.

* * * * *

Economically war is much more wasteful than golf. In war a waster bullet is a total loss, but when you lose a golf ball somebody else finds it, and eventually your initials are worn off it. By the way, has the question been discussed, and settled, whether it is good sportsmanship to stamp your initials on a ball? We never stamped more than a dozen, and none of these, when lost, was ever returned to the shop.

FRENZIED JOHN.

He worked as hard at golf
As any man alive;
For nothing went the time he spent—
He always sliced his drive.

He held himself like this,
He held himself like that;
By hook and crook he tried to look
And see where he was at.

He changed his stance and grip—
It mattered not at all;
The same old thing with every swing,
He sliced the bally ball.

He put his right foot forward,
He put his right foot back;
But still his game remained the same—
He sliced at every crack.

He told it to the lockers,
He told it in the hall,
Till more and more it grew a bore
To hear he sliced the ball.

He read the books of Vardon,
Of Taylor, Braid, and all;
But every shot went straight to pot—
He sliced the cursed ball.

He went to Doctor Vardon,
And got the best advice;
He whaled the pill till he was ill,
Nor ever lost his slice.

Doc took him out to pasture,
And showed him what to do,
And while the Doc was there to knock
He hit them fairly true.

But after Doc departed
The stuff was off again:
He shot it on to Helngon,
And nearly went insane.

He tried to hit it easy,
But still his trouble grew;
He tried, like Jesse Guilford,
To split the ball in two.

No matter how he whacked it,
He sliced into the tall.
“O Lord, how long!” his frenzied song;
“How must I hit the ball?”

Again to Old Doc Vardon
He tottered for advice.
Said Doc: “We’ll have to operate,
And cut away that slice.”

He overlapped with Vardon,
He underlapped with Vaile—
And sliced into the garden
Of Mr. Ezra Hale.

He trained with Doctor Hammond—
“The Essence of the Matter”—
Old Simpson, Bart., he knew by heart,
And yet his score grew fatter.

He put his right hand under,
He put his right hand up,
But still the ball would hunt the tall,
Nor ever reach the cup.

He put his heels together,
He put his heels apart.
With anguished brow he wondered how
He’d ever learn the art.

He laid the club-face forward,
He laid the club-face back.
His face grew thin, his chest fell in,
His mind began to crack.

(Note: _This poem was never finished by Mr. Taylor._ Ed.)

* * * * *

Mr. Pradt of Wausau, Wis., writes to us: “One day last summer I found my ball, after a fine approach, lying in a hole on the back of a toad. Would you hold that the ball was teed up?” We should hold, off hand, that it was toad up.

STYMIED.

Sir: This is the situation at a summer resort course in Wisconsin:

Chorus of Young Ladies: “Oh, is that the professional?”

Caddie: “Yes, but he’s married.”

J. G. L.

* * * * *

Did you happen to see this wheeze in a recent issue of _London Punch_:

“In New York a club has been started exclusively for golfers. The others insisted on it.”

* * * * *

The headline, “Finds a Husband on Golf Links,” reminds us of the lady who observed sagely: “There is one good thing about golf. You always know where your husband is.”

* * * * *

Young Mr. Ouimet’s feat of holing out in one iron shot contains a helpful hint for the novice. When the hole is only 243 yards away take a midiron. A driver might put you over the green.

OVERHEARD AT A SMALL-TOWN BALL GAME.

Umpire: “Boy, that’s certainly some tear you gave your pants when you slid.”

Casey (colored): “Shuah is. Mighty near havin’ to call this game off on ’counta darkness.”

WHIT.

THE GOLFER.

“The only man who can play a good game of golf is he who has no brains.”—ANDREW LANG.

Like Man With Hoe he leans upon his club,
And gazes groundward with a vacant air;
A wretched, brainless, golf-besotted dub—
A brother to the Hatter and the Hare.

Ah, what to him the “swing of Pleiades”
Whose mind is fixed on swinging on the pill,
Whose only mental processes are these:
“I must grip tight, and keep my head quite still.”

Ah, what to him the pull of Jupiter—
This muddy-headed clod, this witless wight—
Who fears that _he_ may “pull,” or, commoner,
Slice off into the bushes on the right.

For aught he knows whom golf hath so besot,
The sky has fall’n, or is about to fall;
For heaven and earth, and time and space are not
To him whose gaze is glued upon the ball.

“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,”
May all have bumped th’ inevitable hour,
For aught _he_ knows, infatuated slave!

So come away and leave him to his club,
His rubber pill, his fixed and vacant stare.
’Tis but a brainless, golf-besotted dub,
A brother to the Hatter and the Hare.

* * * * *

According to Mr. Jim Barnes, whose new and really valuable book of golf-swing photographs has just left the press, one can get more fun out of golf by knowing what he is about when wielding the various clubs. But according to Capper & Capper, “How to Get More Fun Out of Golf” depends on wearing athletic union suits with swiss-ribbed bottoms.

* * * * *

Observe how easily the Western Golf Association, confronted, like the peace conference, with the problem of the stymie, reverses its perplexity! The player of the ball nearer the hole may play it or lift it, at his option.

DOES TOBACCO AFFECT YOUR GAME?

We are not sure whether smoking has an adverse influence on our game, such as it is; but we felt a bit concerned the other day when we missed a thirty-foot putt. For—

Tidal fury surges o’er us,
And we breathe a savage “Tut!”
When, with all the green before us,
We don’t hole a ten-yard putt.

AN EXTREMELY INTELLIGENT DOG.

Sir: I have a remarkable dog, a Scotch terrier, bought of a caddy at St. Andrews. This dog has seen some pretty good golf, and is a bit of a critic. I took him to the links to watch my game. My approach to the second flag was within five yards, and the dog disconcerted me by sitting by the hole and alternately watching it and me. My putt went wide and seven or eight feet past. The dog arose and began digging frantically at the hole to make it larger. Intelligent?

BRASSIE CLEEK.

PROBLEM OF CONDUCT.

A drives. Before A reaches his ball B drives, and his ball strikes A in the back. A waits for an apology. B comes up and says: “Why didn’t you duck, you rummy? That’d been a peach of a drive.”

What should A do?

WHY GOLF DIVOTEES GO INSANE.

“Putting is extremely simple “Of all the golfing arts putting
and easy to learn.”—_P. A. is the most unteachable.”—_Bernard
Vaile._ Darwin._

“Although putting appears to “The putt is without doubt
be the simplest thing in golf the easiest stroke to learn.”—_P.
to the beginner, after a little A. Vaile._
experience he will find out that
it is the most difficult part of
the game.”—_Jerome Travers._

“It is impossible to assert “The best way is to let the
with too passionate an emphasis body go slightly forward with
that the player must not try the club as the ball is
to assist the club on its path struck.”—_Tom Ball._
by sympathetically moving his
body forward in unison with
it.”—_Bernard Darwin._

“The plan of playing for the “Always go for the back of
back of the hole is all right the hole.”—_Innumerable
in certain shots.”—_J. L. Low._ Authorities._

DO YOU KNOW THIS ONE?

[From Tom Daly’s department in the Philadelphia Ledger.]

Somebody, probably our favorite story-teller among golfers, narrated to us the tale of a man whom the same John D. invited to play on the Rockefeller private course at Cleveland. The guest had neglected to provide himself with balls. “Lend Mr. Blank a couple of old balls, George,” said the host to his caddie. “There’s no old balls in the bag, Mr. Rockefeller,” replied the caddie. “No?” exclaimed the host, and after a pause, “well, I guess you’ll have to lend him a new one, then.”

* * * * *

We have wondered ever and anon—and sometimes as frequently as now and then—where the illustrators get their golf models for the decorating of magazine covers. Perhaps on public links, where there is no grip or stance so absurd that it may not be observed.

WHY GOLF DIVOTEES GO INSANE.

(_Concerning the use of the mashie_)

“The blade is better for being “Better results can be obtained
deep.”—_Mr. Travis._ by using a mashie with a
narrow face.”—_Mr. Travers._

“The ball has to be picked up “Follow through as in the
rather abruptly.”—_Bernard drive.”—_Mr. Travis._
Darwin._

“Draw in the arms a trifle “There is no drawing in at the
immediately after the ball is moment of crossing to produce
struck.”—_Mr. Travis._ the cut.”—_P. A. Vaile._

“The player must take turf “It matters very little whether
after hitting the ball.”—_Mr. the player takes ground with
Travers._ him or not.”—_Simpson, Bart._

“The back-swing is long or short, “Many will remember the wonderful
according to the distance from accuracy Jamie Anderson acquired,
the green.”—_A multitude of hitting a full blow at all distances,
authorities._ and regulating the length of his
loft by the inches of turf he took
behind the ball.”—_Simpson, Bart._

“Keep your eye on the “Keeping the eye on the ball is not
ball.”—_Chorus of pundits._ of first importance.”—_George
O’Neil._

GUFFLE FOR GOLFERS

For the benefit of golfers who depend on this department exclusively for their tips on the game, we have engaged Mr. Donald MacBawbee, the famous professional at Prairie Dog, as first aid to the helpless, and we feel safe in promising that he will add delightfully to the complications of the sport.

Mr. MacBawbee is 5 feet 11⅜, and carries the conventional clubs, with the addition of two implements which he calls a soakum and a pushum. The first is a bludgeon of wood, and is employed for dispatching the ball from the tee; the second is an iron for push shots. The grip of this iron is tapered to a point at the end, so that when the hands are pushed forward, which Mr. MacBawbee claims is the proper way to make the shot, the chance of the hands slipping is reduced to an irreducible minimum.

The Prairie Dog pro is committed to heavy clubs, and consequently he prefers lignum vitae to the conventional hickory. Concerning the length of the implements he has very decided opinions. No golfer, he says, should attempt to wield a club taller than himself or shorter than his golf bag. A happy medium, he suggests, will prove most satisfactory.

Mr. MacBawbee lays much emphasis on the matter of stance. Two ways of confronting the ball, he says, are the ramrod stance and the cab-horse stance. The first is to be avoided, as several cases are recorded of players who have broken a leg in swinging. The cab-horse stance is easy, graceful, and relaxing. As an arch is stronger than a straight line, the firmest of all stances, says Mr. MacBawbee, is the hoop stance, but this is possible only for very bowlegged golfers. For this stance he advises that the feet be placed rather near each other.

* * * * *

Says Mr. Jock Hutchinson, who is illuminating the arcanum of golf for the benefit of the Dub Family Robinson, “I am 5 feet 10¼ inches in height, weigh 137 pounds, and carry twelve clubs.” That bag would bar him from the Lincoln Park Country Club.

Hon. Jock’s arsenal of irons includes one which he calls a “stopum.” Percy Hammond’s bag includes a peculiar instrument which might be called a “topum.”

* * * * *

Besides a “stopum” every bag of golf clubs should contain a startum, a topum, a sliceum, a hookum, a sclaffum, a killum, and, for general utility, a dubum.

* * * * *

Doc Hammond’s golf bag has two new clubs in it besides his topum—a lose-um and a wet-um.

* * * * *

Home-bound from the links, we were thinking, for the somethingth time, that golf was a great waste of time and money, when we observed a citizen starting out to break a few hundred clay pigeons. Everything is relative, as Box remarked to Cox.

FAMOUS LAST LINES.

“The shower bath is the best part of the game.”

THE LINKS OF ANCIENT ROME.

Fragments from the Diary of Maecenas.

Latin Verses by P. Sebleius Ferus

(Payson S. Wild).

I—AUGUSTUS FIT CUPIDUS SCIENDI (C II K)

_Maecenas vult ut Princeps faciat quod intemperanter promiserit._

“Nuper, Octavi, dixisti iturum
Te mecum olim et campos visurum
Ubi libentes iam ludimus illa
Altivolante, durissima pila.
Die mihi, vetule, saltem spectare
Nonne nunc vis, si nondum tentare?”

_Octavius respondet breviter “Minime pol in tuo daguerreotypo.”_

Frustra cum Imperatore locutus,
Impedimenta ac fustes indutus,
Abii atque quaesivi amicos
Qui iam profecti ad agros apricos.
Sed vix discesseram fessus orando,
Cum Caesar, fessus et ipse negando,
Talia reddit adstantibus fando:

_Princeps affirmat hunc ludum sibi nihil in lusibus esse._

“Bella, Rapinae, Incendia, Caedes,
Carmina, Litterae, Templa et Aedes,
Quae sunt res publicae, graves et durae,
Illis furentibus nihil sunt curae;
Immo pol VINUM, MULIERES, CANTUM,
Non tantum diligunt, antea quantum!
Namque NOVICIUS LUSUS DAMNABILIS
Nescio quis, et, ut dicunt, mirabilis
Fascinavisse videtur sodales
Quondam carissimos contubernales.
Eam rem omnem non facio flocci;
Sum studiosior COMICI SOCCI,
Amo PICTURAS MOVENTES vel PONTEM,
Cupidus nunquam per vallem aut montem
PILULAM ALBAM sequendi in fontem!

_Sed putat illum sibi investigandum saltem._

“At cantilenam eandem cur cano;
Num decet ipsi mentiri tyranno?
Huc AUTOMOVENS VEHICULUM ferte!
Quid-INEL agant comperiam certe.”

II—AUGUSTUS UTITUR LINGUA VULGARI SED LUDUM DISCIT.

_Maecenas pilam expellit dum Princeps adridet._

Pilam expuleram aggere primo,
Cum Imperator iam illitus limo,
Clamans “Quid! Istoc est totum?” apparet,
Atque observat dum pila volaret
PEDES per caelum ad terram SESCENTOS.
“En,” inquit, “sane homunculos lentos,
Qui quot diebus exercent iam dudum
Effeminatum eiusmodi ludum!

_Hic Maecenatem exululat (ut ita dicamus)._

“Quam PUTRIS ICTUS hic proximus erat!
Talis ut aegre peritus pol ferat;
Tu imbecillus es, hercle, Maecenas;
Quid fluit tibimet, quaeso, per venas?
‘ATAVIS EDITE REGIBUS’—quippe;
Hoc enim luderet ludo XANTIPPE!
Si non potuero longius sphaeram
Quam tu impellere, causam tum quaeram.
Clavam da mihi; ostendam, sceleste,
Ego tu faciam. Omnes adeste!”

_Augustus “fusillum exspirat.”_

Ita locutus, tenaciter prendit
Clavam et statim ad aggerem tendit.
Spuens confestim in mediam manum,
Pectore scelus anhelans profanum,
Agitat baculum sat negligenter;
S-s-s-t! ferit sphaeram (ut putat) valenter.
At tamen haece immobilis iacet,
Atque Augustus attonitus tacet.
Puer cachinnat, qui saccum ferebat,
Temporis tamen momento silebat,
Nam ululatum iam Princeps tollebat:
“STULTE DAMNATE, AD USQUE AVERNAM
VOLO TU EAS GEHENNAM INFERNAM!”

_Maecenas leniter loquitur._

Tum ridens “Oculos,” inquam, “attollis;
PILULA illa est, minime FOLLIS.”

“Istud pro DI IMMORTALES excide!
Si placet, eris dum mortuus, ride!

_Princeps lepidopteron acquirit._

Heus, VESPERTILIO, caece, ausculta:
Quae tibi faciam ea sunt multa.
Ego et tu excercebimus soli—
Pilam amittere edepol noli!”

_Maecenas amicique ludunt pocillum undevicensimum._

Nos modo CAUDAS GALLORUM MARTINI,
Modo lagenas arcessimus, vini.

THE LINKS OF ANCIENT ROME.

English version by B. L. T.

I—AUGUSTUS BECOMES C2K.

_Maecenas reminds the Emperor of a rash promise._

“Octavius, I’ve often heard you say
That you’d cut out the work some sunny day,
And have a look at our new country club.
Why not this aft, old top? Put on a sub;
Come down and watch us shoot a round of golf,
Whether you stay to play or stay to scoff.”

_Augustus returns a laconic “Nix.”_

“Nix on that golf stuff,” said the Emperor,
And so to prod him further I forbore.
Grabbing my clubs I chucked them in my car,
And made the two miles to the links in par;
While Caesar, peeved at having stood me off,
Let go the following remarks on golf:

_Augustus defines golf as his notion of zero in recreations._

“War, glory, statecraft, and the Muses Nine
No longer charm these golf-mad friends of mine;
Wine, skirts, and song have also lost their hold
Beside this strange new game that, I am told,
By old and young and wise and foolish played is—
For which I would not give a hoot in Hades.
Me for the play or moving picture show,
A hand at bridge, or any game with go;
But chasing white pills round a vacant lot
Is my idea of entertainment, _not_.

_But he decides to look it over._

“But here I am, singing the same old tune.
I’ve really not much on this afternoon,
And can, as old Maecenas said, knock off
And watch him shoot a hole or two at golf.
My motorcycle, boy! I’d like to see
Just wotinel this d. f. game may be.”

II—AUGUSTUS INDULGES IN STRONG LANGUAGE, BUT DECIDES TO LEARN THE GAME.

_Maecenas drives, and the Emperor sniffs._

I whaled the ball two hundred yards or more—
A screamer—when up wheeled the Emperor,
Exclaiming, as he watched the sphere sail off,
“Ye gods! Is _that_ the total sum of golf!
Weaklings and mollycoddles, what a shame
To waste your time on such a baby game!

_He bawls Maecenas out._

“And you, Maecenas, ‘Son of Ancient Kings’
(As Flaccus boy satirically sings
In his last book, ‘A Line-o’-Verse or Two’),
Is that the best, old scout, that you can do?
A stroke most ladylike! Why, on my soul,
I’d back Xantippe for a ball a hole!
Say, if I couldn’t slam that piffling pill
Over the crest of yonder fir-clad hill
I’d go jump in the Tiber. Here, I say,
Give me that mallet! Caddy, stand away!”

_Augustus short-circuits himself._

Preluding thus, the Top Card took his stance,
Giving the “pill” a quick, contemptuous glance,
Then swung the driver with terrific force,
And—missed the ball a foot or two, of course.
A caddy snickered, then discreetly blew,
And Caesar after him the driver threw,
With certain objurgations, warm and tinglish,
That look less rude in Latin than in English.

_Maecenas speaks in part as follows._

I laughed and said, “You see, it takes some skill:
You didn’t keep your eye upon the pill.
The striking surface, you’ll observe, is small;
It’s not, Octavius, a soccer ball.”

_The Emperor gets the bug._

“Aw, cut that out, for love of Mike!” said he.
“Laugh if you will—I grant it’s one on me.
Son of a bat!”—he called the nearest caddy—
“We’ll learn this game _alone_. Come on, my laddie;
And if you lose this new ball in the rough
What I will do to you will be enough!”

_Maecenas and his friends play the Nineteenth Hole._

So off they went, while we the club bar found,
And ordered dry martinis all around.

A LINE-O’-GOWF OR TWO

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

HAD HERRICK GOLFED.

Gather ye foursomes while ye may,
The old year fast is going;
And this same sky that smiles to-day
To-morrow may be snowing.

* * * * *

Why do British golfers, in their photographs, always look as if they were four down at the turn, and American golfers as if they were six up?

THAT WE SHAN’T MAKE A 73.

Sir: I absolutely refuse to putt for a hole if a ball which has already been holed is not removed. What is your pet golfing superstition?

H. F.

* * * * *

Pursuing a red ball over the wintry lea is a pastime that leaves us cold. But, for compensation, one does not hear, in the locker room, that the shower is “the best part of the game.”

* * * * *

“Golf,” writes Professor William Lyon Phelps in “The New Republic,” “has done more for swearing than any other modern employment; it has made taciturn gentlemen as efficient as teamsters. The disappointments of golf are so immediate, so unexpected, so overwhelming. Nearly all men, and women, too, must swear naturally in their thoughts; else how explain such easily acquired efficiency!”

Professor Phelps’ observations coincide with ours. Once, having addressed the recreant ball in terms more pointed than polite, we remarked to the caddy: “The ladies never talk that way, do they?” “Oh,” said he, “they say worse things than that.” Which moved us to inquire: Should a youth of tender years caddy for a lady?

* * * * *

“Golf is the peculiar pastime of a peculiar people”; and particularly peculiar are the persons into whose soul the iron has entered and displaced the wood. A friend of ours, Colonel Talmadge, of Glen View, is one of these eccentrics. He was starting out for a round one day, toting a ton of iron, when his partner inquired: “Where are you going with all those dental instruments?”

* * * * *

The news that a golf pro in Louisiana was buried with his favorite clubs set us wondering what might be the width of the River Styx. While waiting for the ferry the shade might tee up a few balls and see whether he could carry the hazard.

* * * * *

“Golfing Wonder—One-Legged Man’s Win in Open Tournament.”—London Mail.

He couldn’t kick, eh?

* * * * *

The grounds and greens committee of the Evanston Golf Club concludes: “Transgressions of the rules embodied in paragraphs 1 to 14 shall be reported at once to the rules and etiquette committee.” But why, a member wants to know, send the fourteen points abroad again?

FOR GOLF BUGS ONLY.

In 1909, P. A. Vaile, the w. k. golf nut, discoursed in “Modern Golf” on the superior merits of the open stance. The model he selected for his illustrations, George Duncan, was shown hewing to that stance, let the chip shots fall where they might. However, a little study convinced us, then learning the game, that, while the open stance might be all right for Duncan, it was all wrong for us; whereupon we adopted the square stance, and, like the person in the soap ad, we have “used no other since.”

Now hearken to George Duncan, writing in 1920: “Generally speaking,” says he, “I should say that the best stance is the square one. I found it to be the best, but, before I made the discovery, I went through a trying time in which I had many aggravating cutting of tee shots.... To many (I know it did to me) the open stance would appear to be the natural method of standing up to a golf ball. I can only repeat that if your trouble is slicing, you will continue to have plenty of it to face if you do not get to the square stance.”

Better late than never.

* * * * *

A good argument against the theory that man is descended from the monkey is the average golfer. Now, the monkey is nothing if not imitative, but a golfer can watch a professional swing all day without being able to imitate his motions. No swing could be more obvious than that of our canny friend, Joe MacMorran; he merely hauls off and hits the ball, which is all that is necessary. Josephus weighs, when he is eating well, 104 pounds, yet he knocks the ball half a mile, or thereabouts.

FOR GOLF NUTS ONLY.

Dear Beechnut: Why do I call you a beechnut? Because it’s the only nut older than a chestnut. What do you mean in 1920 by trying to hold me answerable for what George Duncan and I thought in 1909? On golf we are like Art J. Balfour in politics—of whom you may have heard, although you would not approve of his follow through. We have no settled convictions. We must expand with the exigencies of modern golfomania.

You know yourself, from personal experience, that the stance for the pull at the 19th hole has been recently changed to the open square, and even at that it requires a fine push to get a shot of any length or depth. When such a radical change as this takes place overnight you must not mind George Duncan changing his mind once in ten years—and I am not sure that I don’t agree with him.

P. A. VAILE.

THE NINETEENTH HOLE.

[From the Des Moines Register.]

Mr. and Mrs. Harry Hole will entertain the Nonpareil Club Friday evening at their home, 1502 Twenty-fourth street.

* * * * *

Once in an aeon or two somebody says something about putting that is as a light in a dark place, as a staff to a blind man, as a voice crying in the wilderness. Thus spake George Zarathustra O’Neil:

“It will be objected that no putting green is as smooth as a billiard table, but such objectors will hardly maintain that the majority of putts that miss do so because they are thrown off the line by inequalities in the surface of the green. The fact is that most putts that miss were not played properly—and that is the whole truth.”

WHOLE DUTY OF CADDIES.

A caddie should be, first of all,
As silent as the Sphinx of fable;
And he should watch the flying ball,
At least as far as he is able.

That, with acknowledgment to Stevenson’s heirs and assigns, covers the case to our notion. It may be desirable to give a caddie a polite education, including French and dancing, but the duty of a caddie is simple. So long as he is reticent and watches the ball, we don’t mind if he stands an inch too near us while we shoot, or whether he bats an eye while holding the flag for a putt.

* * * * *

Miami, with its 19-hole golf course, has a rival in Pensacola, which calls itself “The Oasis of West Florida.” One who was there tells us that it is well camouflaged.

* * * * *

We have read half a ton of golf books, and in none of them is it advised to start the hands back before the club head. Yet, as C. B. Lloyd’s moving pictures show, many if not most of the crack players employ that method. Don’t they know what they do?

* * * * *

“Lord Northcliffe is shown contemplating a long drive on the celebrated golf course at Biarritz, where he is much at home.”—The incomparable Examiner.

As the gentleman has a mashie in his hands, he is evidently a considerable contemplater.

* * * * *

“Warren K. Wood and Will Diddel, paired against Chick Evans and Kenneth Edwards.”

Hey, Diddel, Diddel, the cat and the fiddle,
The ball sailed over the moon,
The gallery laughed to see such sport,
And Chick drove the green with a spoon.

* * * * *

“With the upright swing,” writes Hon. Jock Hutchison, “you must of necessity take some turf. Any novice knows when he has taken too much.” True; the limit is a pound. But what the novice needs to know is that it is more important to put back turf than to take it.

* * * * *

Speaking of the Lincoln Park Country Club, F. D. P. reports that the golfer in the skin-tight, bowery blue sweater failed to make a clean drive although he spat on both hands.

* * * * *

A carping correspondent asks why cartoonists, column conductors, and so forth, drop into golf when they can’t think of anything else to draw or write about. We can reply only for this department. We touch the subject of golf infrequently, and then chiefly for the benefit of readers in remote corners of the land, who write to us to ask about such elementary things as the difference between square and open stance. These novices are almost sure to get off on the wrong foot if they read almost any of the books about golf. Herr Einstein’s explanation of his theory is translucent compared with the average golf writer’s exposition of his stroke.

The results are sometimes deplorable. There is Ed Freschl, who wrote the other day that golf does not reduce his circumference. Very likely not—with his swing. He probably entertains that curious notion of the “follow-through” which the writers emphasize—the notion of “letting the arms go forward freely,” as if that would get you anything. Ed will never take up any belt-holes by extending his arms in prayer.

* * * * *

Brother Whigham takes a lusty crack at some of the “enormities” of golf, No. 2 being “the horrible habit of counting scores and competing for silver pots on Saturday afternoons.” Medal scores produce the “strong east winds in the locker room” which George Ade once referred to, and are a nuisance in more ways than one. Some pencil players remain on the putting green, lost in computation, and it is necessary to drive into them to wake ’em up.

* * * * *

The links of the Gary Country Club are laid out on the Atlas plan, reports the Gary Tribune. “That is, squares each 100 feet in size, measure numerically one way and alphabetically the other. This greatly facilitates the locating of any particular section of the grounds when necessary.” The idea being, we take it, that when a player slices into the ball he has only to consult his atlas to locate the ball.

* * * * *

Much personal property was destroyed in the fire at the Glen View Country Club; but they saved the trophies! What’s the use of having a fire if you don’t get rid of the trophies?

“THE ART OF GOLF.”

Readers and writers of the game are discovering Sir Walter Simpson, whose “Art of Golf” is a classic not so much because of the instruction it contains as because of the graceful style in which the instruction is conveyed. In this respect it resembles “The Compleat Angler.” Old Izaak’s instruction to fishermen was sound enough, but we cherish his pages for something more than that. Sir Walter wrote the book himself, we conjecture—another peculiarity distinguishing it from most of the dull-thud volumes on the Five-Foot Shelf of Golf Books. Copies of it appear to be scarce; a gentleman writes to “The American Golfer” that he has a Simpson in his library, which “makes at least two copies in America.” We’ll make it three; there is a copy in the Chicago Public Library. And we shall be much surprised if Mr. Dana, the golfing librarian of Newark, N. J., hasn’t Simpson in _his_ temple of erudition.

SUPREME IGNORANCE.

Sir: The scene is a picnic in the middle of the fairway of Hole 1. Question, by a judge of the Supreme Court: “What do they use this part of the golf grounds for?”

J. P. M.

Cornell, Ia.

* * * * *

A player on a public course in Chicago broke a leg during his upswing at Tee No. 1. Very likely he is, or was, a disciple of that school of thought which insists on having the right leg as rigid as the well known ramrod. Soon or late one of these stiff-legged players was bound to unscrew or fracture the limb. For this school the wooden leg is the ideal pivot.

“GOLIF.”

“Much virtue in If,” as the Bard of Avon (sometimes referred to as Shakespeare) remarked. “If I hadn’t looked up—” “If I hadn’t tried to kill the ball—” “If I hadn’t sliced—” “If I hadn’t turned my body too soon—” In view of these and other Ifs, lame and impotent explanations (commonly known as alibis), the World’s Greatest Obsession might appropriately be spelled “Golif.”

* * * * *

An account of an aviation stunt on Chesapeake’s strand includes the instructive information that the aviator “began his loops with graceful curves, accurately timed.” Our first thought was that all curves are graceful, but the Short Skirt has negatived that notion; and some of the most ungraceful golf swings we have observed undeniably described curves. The intriguing item in the aviation story was the accuracy of the timing. If we only knew how a sky terrier times his curves we might be able to explain how Mr. Ouimet or Mr. Evans times his’n.

* * * * *

“All Mrs. Gourlay Dunn-Webb’s male ancestors for generations, including her father and mother, have been golf experts and teachers.”

Does this prove, queries J. U. H., that golf un-sexes one?

THE GOLFING DOCTOR.

The patient’s brow was hot and dry,
His pulse was running rather high;
The missus, worried by his groans,
Dispatched a call for Doctor Jones.
Doc, summoned from his favorite game,
Picked up his other tools and came;
And presently he reached the door,
Exclaiming as he entered, “Fore!”

He drew a chair beside the bed,
And felt the patient’s feverish head;
He took his pulse, and said, “I see.
He’s doing it in 93.
Too high,” said he, “Too high by far;
He’s twenty-one beats over par.”

Then turning to the anxious wife,
“He’s not in danger of his life;
His general health is good enough,
He’s merely slicing to the rough.
These simple pills I leave with you
Will get him down to 72.
He’ll soon be back in summer form.
Good morning, madam. Rather warm.”

* * * * *

A lady in Lake Forest, Ill., whose cottage is within a few yards of the tenth hole at Onwentsia, tells us that there are no good players in the club. It seems that the members of foursomes gather at this tee to make up their matches for the day, and the lady in the cottage has overheard so much self-depreciation, she has come to the natural conclusion that every player in the club ought to be started at least six up.

* * * * *

Whenever we play at Onwentsia we think of an odd happening at the first tee a few years ago. A waiting foursome of plutocrats were discussing a Certain Rich Man. “Oh, he’s not so well off,” remarked one; “his income can’t be more than $250,000 a year.” At that moment a visiting golfer from the Skokie club, who was in the act of swinging, topped his drive and fell into a swoon.

* * * * *

It is an old saying that too much abuse of a man will enlist sympathy for him. So with the stymie. Many players who considered it merely a necessary nuisance are beginning to feel that they can’t keep house without it.

IN THE LATE BILL NYE’S BAILIWICK.

Sir: Can you inform me where one might procure a good golf hound? The animal chosen must have a sense of smell that will not be deflected by the dust and gnats in the buffalo grass, a sense of sight that is unerring, and the courage and agility to retrieve balls which have rolled down gopher holes. Ours is a nine-hole course. The first hazard consists of discarded objects of various sorts forming what might be called the city dump. The other hazards are prairie-dog villages and the tribe of gopher. To keep thoughtless cattle from making their beds on our greens we have the latter enclosed with barbed wire. But even here the game flourishes.

JOSH B. P.

Laramie, Wyo.

* * * * *

When we added a wing to our Cannery last Spring, we reserved a shelf for golf phrases that exhibit signs of decomposition. The canning season is now here, and Jar No. 1 has been set on the shelf, bearing the label, “A close student of the game.”

SOUNDS SARCASTICAL.

Sir: I read: “Kenneth Edwards by his play to-day demonstrated that he is possessed of the courage of a lion.” In the face of these noble sentiments concerning two adulated young men propelling a harmless sphere across the virgin sward, how puerile appear Hercules’ twelve labors, Napoleon’s conquests, and Cato’s success in learning Greek at eighty!

J. F. B.

* * * * *

Golf is becoming a democratic game—who can doubt it? Private and public links multiply. And yet—and yet—when a national tournament is on nobody calls up a newspaper office to inquire about the score.

* * * * *

A pedometer test shows that a housewife walks two miles while preparing three meals, but father walks twice as far doing a round of golf and doesn’t make any fuss about it.

* * * * *

We were admiring the niblick of Chick (“Charles”) Evans. The next morning he sent us one just like it. Quite Japanese—the courtesy, not the niblick. But in Japan you are supposed to return the gift, are you not? How about it, “Charles”?

WE, TOO, PASS.

Relying on our superior wisdom, Mr. George O’Neil has relayed to us the following problem from a Kentucky gentleman:

“Dear Sir: I have played golf six years. I play an average game but my iron work has been awful. Lately a friend suggested pronating the left hand (turning it over) just as you start the back-swing, and I must say it worked wonders. I tried the same theory with wooden clubs and the same was disastrous. Why should this work on one and not the other? What really happens when you pronate? Why should a player have to use this method for results?”

* * * * *

We supposed the relative merits of the flat swing and the upright swing had been definitely defined. At least we recall a learned scientific exposition in “Golf Illustrated” some months ago. “Of course,” we remarked to Hon. Bob MacDonald, the lank pro at Indian Hill, “of course you swing upright, whereas we ought to swing flat.” “A flat swing,” replied Hon. Bob, “is no good to anybody.”

SCIENCE IN THE WOODS.

In summer journeys through the woods we have admired (as what forest pilgrim has not) the ax work of our guides; and there is little to choose between the best white artist and the best Indian. Bill was perhaps our favorite, and it was always a pleasure to watch him work—especially if the day was warm. His execution was precise, no matter how precarious the stance—as, for example, when he placed one foot on the bow of the canoe and the other on a floating log, and tackled the river barricade which the Chippewa calls “ge-bok-wah.” Bill grasped his ax with the o. f. palm grip. We tried to induce him to use the Vardon grip, explaining that the two hands would function more nearly like one, but Bill couldn’t see it; nor could we make him visualize the motion of the ax as a sweep, rather than a hit. We had better luck when we got on the subject of the left being the master hand. Bill agreed to give that the once over. He did, and nearly cut his feet off. After that we could do nothing with him.

“AM I TO SET MY LIFE UPON A THROW?”

Omar Khayyam, the well-known wine agent, related musically that when young he eagerly frequented the company of the well informed, and listened to cubic miles of heated air; and that, so far as unravelling the plot of the universe was concerned, he might as profitably have spent his time in digging holes in the desert. And so it is that while we hear “great argument” about the golf swing, it remains to the majority (and we fear it must continue to remain) a royal and ancient arcanum.

Take some recent punditial ponderings put forth by men who, as Editor Behr has said, can never be satisfied with their perceptions until they have translated them into thought. A writer in “The American Golfer” illumines the arcanum with this lightning flash:

“The ideal timing consists in gradually increasing the speed of
the swing from the start so that the maximum will be attained
when we connect with the ball.... We should try to put the
final effort into the stroke when the clubhead is about two
feet away from the ball.”

It seemeth to us that any one who tries for a final effort when the clubhead is two feet from the ball is endeavoring to encompass the improbable, and is getting away as far as possible from the idea of “throwing the head of the club at the ball,” as advocated by leading academicians. We asked Mr. George O’Neil to explain the throw, and he replied that “the clubhead must lead in the movement, and pull after it the shaft of the club and the player’s hands, arms, and body.” This dictum may, to some mentalities, be packed with significance, but it means little in our mental life. A throw’s a throw. We, too, essay a throw, but we throw what is in our hands to throw, which is the other end of the club. What becomes of the head of it we do not know, but we are sustained and soothed by the unfaltering trust that if it continues attached to the shaft it will take care of itself.

After all, the difference between Tweedledum and Tweedledee is more fancied than real. Both of these heroes drive a long ball. It is only when they attempt to translate their perceptions into thought that they slice to the rough.

* * * * *

Our gossip, C. B. Lloyd, who has taken miles of moving pictures of the golf swing, writes us that, in the case of many celebrated players, the pictures show that the clubhead does _not_ leave the ball before the hands and arms are set in motion. That coincides with our observation, C. B., and applies particularly, we conjecture, to upright swings.

A THING OF BEAUTY.

(_To Old E. C., Donor._)

I care no dam for diamonds or rubies,
For ornaments in silver or in gold;
Such baubles are for babies or for boobies—
A dozen Kohinoors would leave me cold.

Jewels are something I would never bawl for;
To me they’re merely bits of colored rocks.
But one thing, Ed, I simply have to fall for—
A dozen virgin golf balls in a box.

“CONSULT HARRY VARDON.”

DEAR MR. VARDON: We cannot supply a photograph of our chief golfing fault, but perhaps we can make it clear to you. Our great trouble is splitting our psyche; we seem not to be able to give an undivided soul to the ball. Just as we are ready to shoot, something of less importance—immortality, the war, or the cost of living—comes to mind, and the result, as often as not, is a top. Any little suggestion will be appreciated by your constant reader and admirer.

* * * * *

Among those recently bitten by the golf bug is Old Bill Byrne, and he is making, as he was bound to make, interesting discoveries. “A man isn’t a good player,” sezzee, “until he can make his drive sound like the wind storm in ‘Way Down East.’”

* * * * *

Golf is being made safe for democracy, as items like the following indicate:

ON THE LINKS OF THE GARFIELD TOWN AND COUNTRY CLUB.

Sir: Last Sunday our Beau Brummel appeared in the latest golfing costume, cutaway, striped trousers and straw hat. And he played.