Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

GOLFATOR. Come, my good Scholar, let us tarry a space beneath this maple, that we waste not the morning utterly, but give ear to the meadowlarks, and take in the sweet scents which the sun distilleth from the new leaves and grasses. And if your mind still be on this golf you may view, to your profit, the players that pass by us; for it is as needful to know what to avoid doing as what to do.

SCHOLAR. Here comes one that has played these many years, yet methinks he performs but indifferent well.

GOLF. Ay, sir, and should he attain to the years of Noah he would come to no greater skill. This is one that, scorning instruction, hath worked out his own game—a poor thing but his own. There be many such, and when they play one against the other, commonly for stakes, ’tis a great battle of blunders. Mark you that drive! The green is but an iron shot away, but the ball has fallen a score of yards on this side.

SCHOL. Yet he smote it mightily.

GOLF. A lusty stroke, that might have served in the driving of a fence post, but one that is as ill suited to the propelling of a golf ball as the stroke of a pile driver, the which it counterfeits. The marvel is, not that the ball fell short, but that it flew so far.

SCHOL. Ay, marry, he swung like a knight of Camelot upon an adversary’s shield.

GOLF. Not so, else there had been room for praise. Think you the heroes of Camelot buffetted the enemy so ineptly, fighting their own selves at the top of the swing, as most golfers do? Nay, I promise you. Sir Launcelot timed his mighty blows; nor did he strike stiffly, in a piece, but drove sharply with his wrists, on which his sword turned as upon a hinge, his great arms following, and there was naught to resist his cleavage. Wherefore the fame of his follow-through spread through all the land. And this matter of the follow-through you are now to consider.

GOLF. You are to know, my honest Scholar, that the follow-through, concerning which an infinite deal of nothing is said and written, is like to the snark, and he that setteth out to compass its taking will have his trouble for his pains. For the follow-through is the result of a proper stroke, and not the cause of it; it hath not a separate existence, as a something to be sought after; therefore I would have you take no thought of it.

SCHOL. Yet, Master, have I seen players practising this thing with exceeding industry.

GOLF. Marry, sir, Simple Simon was as well employed. But ’tis the way of man to seek after the ends and take no thought of the means, and to look upon success as a something bestowed by heaven upon one mortal and denied to another. This is but vanity and vexation of spirit, as the Preacher saith. My good Scholar, this golf teacheth a man more things than one, and if you have any philosophy in you you shall nurture it and bring it to a full flower; but if you are wanting in philosophy you shall have as much profit in the beating of a carpet, for the which a multitude of golfers are by nature fitted.

SCHOL. Sir, your words are as apples of gold in pictures of silver.

GOLF. Fairly spoken, Scholar; yet I mark you are impatient to be forward with your game, such as it is. Take, then, your iron and I will counsel you in the using of it.

SCHOL. I have heard, Master, that ’tis easier to play with the iron than with a club of wood.

GOLF. As to that there be two opinions, as usual, and you will be wise to follow either, for I am satisfied that they are of equal value.

THE FIFTH HOLE.

GOLFATOR. You are to observe, my honest Scholar, that although your iron is a shorter tool than your wooden, you may do quite as much mischief with it; nay, sir, more, I warrant, for the head of the club being of metal, you may hack a ball to pieces with it in a few wild strokes. Wherefore it is that the experienced golfer plays his iron shots with less frenzy than he brings to his drive, striving to hit the ball cleanly and with exactness.

SCHOLAR. Sir, I shall endeavor the cultivating of this virtue, in accordance with your wise counsel.

GOLF. You are to observe again, that in the free stroke of the drive ’tis all one whether the ball fly ten yards to this side or that of the true line of its flight, but as you draw near to the flag this true line becomes a matter of first importance. Marry, sir, if your desire for knowledge of this game were deeper than yonder ditch, I would have you to begin at the edge of the putting green, and to withdraw by degrees to greater distances, until you reached a point where the wrists no longer sufficed to propel the ball, by the which time they might be trained to some purpose.

SCHOL. Nay, Master, my desire for knowledge of this ingenious game is as deep as any well.

GOLF. Then, sir, I have read you wrongly, for I mark that you clutch your iron with impatience, and gaze into the distance, and then upon this ball at your feet, and you do have the seeming of one that would smite the ball most lustily. Smite it, then, good Scholar, and have done with it. Ah! A most marvelous slice! The ball hath flown far into the wood, as a startled quail. Come, let us follow it, and though we find it not we may happen upon matter of more importance.

SCHOL. The ball cannot be far in the wood, Master. I marked it by this dead tree, yet we find it not.

GOLF. ’Tis most cunningly hidden. Do you sit down, honest Scholar, and rest your eyes, for much searching for a lost ball doth weary them. See, here is a brave array of trilliums, nodding welcome to us, as jocund a company as the poet’s daffodils. Here, too, is columbine, that begins to show itself, and Bethlehem’s Star, and many other wilding flowers.

SCHOL. Sir, I thought to walk directly to the ball, since I saw it drop among these trees.

GOLF. Marry, sir, believe your ears sooner than your eyes, and your nose before either; but not one of the senses is to be trusted. Yet if mine eyes serve me now, here is yellow lady’s-slipper, that I have not seen before in this countryside, and it were well worth losing a ball to come upon this solitary plant, for I see no others of the family. I have found them in great number farther north, where, too, I chanced one rememberable day on the orchid Arethusa, that grows in bogs, and is the loveliest of plants. Mark you the gold in the sunlight, shewing that the summer draws on; and hearken to that thrasher overhead, who would have you to believe that singing is the chief business of life.

SCHOL. Think you that the ball struck upon a tree and was flung deeper into the wood?

GOLF. ’Tis conceivable, for I never saw ball that had less notion of whither it was flying. Let us press farther into the thicket, for ’tis a rare place to loiter in. This, you are to observe, is the compensation for a foolish stroke at golf, for he that plays straight before him sees nought but a strip of turf, and ever his thought is of his next stroke, whether he shall take wood or iron to it.

SCHOL. Good fortune, Master! Here is the ball, among these trilliums, the which it is very like in color.

GOLF. And fairer to your eye than any flower. I observe, sir, that you have the makings of a golfer, and are not to be diverted by the babbling of brookwater, and the twittering of birds, and other natural distractions. Let us return, then, to the fairgreen, where you may make further trial of your iron.

THE SIXTH HOLE.

SCHOLAR. Sir, hither comes a pair of golfers that would play this hole. Shall we stand aside until they pass?

GOLFER. Aye, sir, and I particularly charge you to remain stock still the while, and to breathe as lightly as a summer night; for one of these golfers, he that strutteth before the other, would have Nature to make a pause whilst he swing his club, and is fretful as a porcupine if a caddy do but shift an arm or leg, or a sparrow twitter in a nearby tree.

SCHOL. Sir, I shall take the pattern of the rabbit, that freezeth, as the saying is, when the predacious owl booms through the darkened wood.

[_The players approach._]

GOLF. Good morrow, gentlemen. How fares the match?

FIRST PLAYER. Indifferent well, sir; for what with the gabbling of these caddies and their clicking of clubs together, and the great number of noises round about, one might suppose himself to be on the links of Bedlam.

[_The players drive and pass on._]

GOLF. There goeth one that is a great affliction to his fellows, and is to be found this world over. Now, ’tis but common courtesy to refrain from talking whilst a player drives his ball, but he that is disturbed by such a trifle lacketh control of his mind, and were he a surgeon I should not summon him to so small an operation as the lancing of a boil. Why, sir, if there be any virtue in this game it is that it teacheth one control, and he that cannot dispatch a ball save in a church-yard hush hath somewhat the matter with his wits, or hath no salt of humor in him. To play a round with such a golfer is a great waste of time, save it be done in the way of penance, for which purpose a hair shirt were not more serviceable.

SCHOL. Will you counsel me, Master, in the use of this iron?

GOLF. Willingly, honest Scholar, and for beginning do not hold the club loosely in the palms of your hands, but grip it firmly with your ten fingers. This is the first principle of iron play.

THE SEVENTH HOLE.

GOLFATOR. Well met, honest Scholar. The birds have mated and reared their young since last I saw you, and the summer is over and gone. How fares it with you? Indifferent well, methinks, for I observed you to strike a ball a few minutes since.

SCHOLAR. Truly, Master, this golf is a thing that is not come by quickly, and I well nigh despair of mastering it.

GOLF. Then let me advise you to abandon it in season, that you may be spared much vexation, and your friends many afflicting tales.

SCHOL. Nay, sir, I am resolved at any cost to lay hold of the secret, to which end I have vowed the rest of my days.

GOLF. Truly, a worthy ambition. Now there be men that have vowed their days to so futile a thing as the mapping of the farthest stars, which is of small purpose compared with the mastering of this incomparable game. Good luck to you then, honest Scholar.

SCHOL. Sir, what luck I have now and again is the fruit of such counsel as you have given me, and I entreat you further to instruct me in the art of striking the ball, that it may fly straight, and not match the crescent of the young moon.

GOLF. Marry, sir, you will never bring off a skillful shot, save by accident, until you put rhythm into your stroke; nor is aught else of value achieved in this life save by rhythm. A sage once said that if he but had his way he would write the word “Whim” above every man’s door-way. Now, sir, in the place of this “Whim” I would write the word “Rhythm.”

SCHOL. I take not your meaning, Master. What, in so many words, is this priceless Rhythm?

GOLF. Marry, sir, he that could answer you in so many words would have the tongue of all philosophy.

THE EIGHTH HOLE.

GOLFATOR. Well met, Scholar. Much water has passed the miller’s wheel since last we were in company; and, marry, much has fallen on these fair acres, which too oft at this season are sere and brown; and thus we have compensation for the cool winds and drenching rains of this so backward summer. Saw you ever so green a sward, and grasses so void of dust? Yet mark you the chatter of yon robin, that never gets his fill of rain, so that methinks some far ancestor of his was a water fowl, or perchance a flower that grew in water, since to my fancy birds are but flowers that have taken wings. But peradventure you had rather I question you concerning your towardness in the game of golf, as I mark you have your tools by you, and I may hazard that you have prospered exceedingly.

SCHOLAR. Why, good Master, to speak truth, this ingenious game has so bedeviled me that I mark not if the grass be brown or green, or if robin or blackbird chatter by my path. As for my towardness, I have practised with great diligence, and have been directed by this teacher and that, and all excellently well, yet do I find myself at a stand, and unable to advance beyond a moderate skill.

GOLF. I pray you, Scholar, make trial with your club of wood, that I may observe in what fashion you handle it.

SCHOL. There, Master! Is that not well swung? And that? And that?

GOLF. Marry, an excellent swing, save that it lacks freedom and rhythm, and has no power in it, otherwise a most worthy swing, that might be of great service in knocking apples from a tree. One may observe with half an eye, Scholar, that you have been well instructed in every detail save one, the which concerns the striking of the ball.

THE NINTH HOLE.

GOLFATOR. You are now to know, worthy Scholar, that whatsoever skill you may come to in the wielding of your tools, naught of great consequence is to be achieved at this ingenious game save by the cultivating of the highest powers of concentration, as has well been said by Mr. Travers, and other notable performers; and to the acquiring of this faculty you are to sacrifice all else in life; for what is of greater moment in this world than the proper striking of a ball?

SCHOLAR. Alas, good Master, it is this great faculty that I so sadly lack; for from the moment that I raise my wood or iron until I bring it back, my mind is, as you might observe, a blank.

GOLF. A perfect blank, truly; ’tis as if no mind existed. But thus it is with the majority, therefore be not cast down.

SCHOL. This concentration, sir, is it aught save the fixing of the eye upon the ball?

GOLF. Ay, marry, much more. There is an attention of the eye, and an attention of the mind, and there is also an attention of the soul, and all three of these you shall require. There are lower forms of concentration, and much has been achieved through them. Thus one man sets his mind to the building of a system of philosophy; another man puts himself to the discovering of a satellite of our sun beyond the farthest that is known, or to the devising of an hypothesis that may explain the beginnings of matter, and the movements of the stars; a third man gives his life to the writing of plays, as Shakespeare or Euripides. All these are excellent pastimes, that require concentration; but they are of little import compared with the striking of a ball so it fly straight and to a great distance.

SCHOL. And how, Master, may this concentration be found?

GOLF. Marry, sir, by the endless iteration of the magical words, Keep the eye upon the ball! Give your days to this, good Scholar. ’Tis not necessary to say the words loudly, but so much power is there in the spoken word that one must do more than think the conjuration; a low murmur, or a mumble, will serve. There be those that, observing a man going about muttering to himself, will be moved to scoff, but these, being ignorant of the great matter going forward, need not be considered. Persist, worthy Scholar, and ere the snow lies in winrows on these links, your heart’s desire will be well toward fulfilment.

A LINE-O’-GOWF OR TWO

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

ALICE IN BUNKERLAND.

“If forty pro’s wrote forty books,
Besides what books there are,
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“I’d play this course in par?”
“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,
And lit a fresh seegar.

* * * * *

“The golfer is about the only mortal proud of being in a hole.”—Philadelphia Ledger.

Zazzo? A cribbage player holes out as gleefully as a golfer.

* * * * *

No department of the game discloses more variation than iron work. For example, some players take turf; others take to the woods.

* * * * *

“The really interesting question is, why will not men listen to women?” says Alice Duer Miller. It’s this way, lady. After a hard day on the golf links a man gives reluctant ear to discussions of the music of Ravel and DeBussy, the Epicureanism of Marius, the influence of democracy on Greek culture, and other subjects which the ladies persist in introducing. Collectively, women are rather strenuous. Individually they are easy to listen to, especially if they are easy to look at. And if they punctuate their discourse with taps of a fan and what are known as speaking glances, they may disquisish on any topic, from figs to futurism.

* * * * *

The farmers around Brook, Ind., have voted to keep their clocks at the old time. Comrade Ade will likely use both times—the old for his farm, and the new for his golf course.

ANOTHER NOTED MEMBER OF THE FAMILY WAS A COLONEL.

[Ad in an Ohio paper.]

For Sale—Bookcase and doctor’s library, including skull of Lucretia Bogie, a noted murderess. W. H. Garnette, East Monroe, O.

* * * * *

“Golf,” again we read, “is a game that demands courtesy and politeness.” Makes us think of coal at the present writing. The demand exceeds the supply.

* * * * *

“Golf Playing Is Newest Cure for the Insane.”—Newspaper Headline.

As the Latins used to say, Similia similibus curantur.

* * * * *

Our golfing ambition may be stated in three words: Length without strength.

SHAKESPEARE ON THE AMATEUR QUESTION.

_Horatio_—Is it a custom?

_Hamlet_—Ay, marry, is’t;
But to my mind, though I am native here
And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honour’d in the breach than the observance.

* * * * *

There are two theories to explain the steadiness of champions in gruelling (to coin a word) tournament play. One is “heart of oak,” and the other is head of the same material.

THE TURF-TEARERS.

Demos has taken to golf in America. In Lincoln Park, Chicago, Demos wears suspenders and a derby, and Mrs. Demos has been seen pushing a perambulator from hole to hole. For the delectation of Demos, golf links and books are multiplying, and eventually every town will have at least two libraries—the Carnegie and the Golf.

HELPFUL HINT NO. 640.

When in doubt pronate the forearm.

* * * * *

To Inquiring Golfer: Qualifications for membership in the Lincoln Park Golf Club are a derby hat and a coupla clubs. No one is allowed to tee off unless he is thus equipped.

Golf magazines are showing spring fashions for players; effete east stuff, chiefly. A natty make-up which will be seen at the Lincoln Park Country Club is exhibited in the accompanying illustration.

* * * * *

We were sitting on the porch of the clubhouse at Brae Burn, listening to a discussion of the prohibition of Sunday golf at other courses. A gentleman who looked like a substantial pillar of the church offered his views. “Cut all your church subscriptions,” said he. “That will put a stop to this nonsense.”

* * * * *

Mr. Ouimet qualified with a score of 79 and a temperature of 103. That established the temperature record for the course, which is uncommonly difficult.

* * * * *

When, one day, we engaged a caddy to walk around with us, although we carried only a midiron, we fancied we had reached the Height of Affluence; but we know a man who drives a Ford and carries a chauffeur on the rear seat.

DEGENERATE DAYS.

For years our hard-boiled foursome
Came to the eighteenth hole;
And then the struggle for a par,
To save a payment at the bar.
The café beckoned from afar
To every thirsty soul.

When now on Sunday morning
Fred steps upon the tee,
With dull despair his brow is wet;
We do not care what score we get—
For ice cream sodas are the bet,
The price of victory.

“The time has come,” I heard Fred mutter,
“For me to fall upon my putter.”

DOUBLE BARREL.

* * * * *

Golfers, the days are growing shorter. Get out after dinner and save some daylight for the farmers.

* * * * *

“Golf has its jokes, undoubtedly,” says Dr. Francis Hackett, “but it has no joke such a joke as golf itself.” If Francis were thirty or forty years younger he would yell “Fore!” whenever he saw a man going along with a bag of clubs.

* * * * *

We have frequently wondered why we play such a messy game on a golf course new to us. Mr. Vardon explains. “The perspective of the course” at Inverness bothered him.

* * * * *

When Harry Vardon relates that he putted from the edge of the green, and “thanks to the fates of golf” the ball fell into the cup, he means that he made a damned good putt and is wholly aware of the fact.

* * * * *

Mr. Harding, we read, shoots Chevy Chase in 95, “but is known to be ambitious to reach par,” which is 71. Any golfer should be able to get a laugh out of that.

WONDER WHAT THIS OISEAU DID?

From the Morris, Man., Herald.

To the Editor: Kindly allow me to make a public apology in your paper concerning my conduct in a game of ball between Emerson and Morris. I feel very sorry and ashamed of myself for losing my hasty temper. I could not have been in my right mind to do just as I did, to allow such a provocation to make me do as I did. It seems like a bad dream to me and never will forget it. In my 24 years of playing I never lost control of myself before. I forgive the player who was the cause of my weakness, and hold no ill-will to any one. It will be better for me to say no more.

JIM D. MCLEAN.

The gentleman could not be more regretful if he had tanked up and punched somebody at the Lambs’ Club.

ON THE OTHER HAND—

From the Kansas City Star.

It is a tribute both to the game of golf and to those who play—the fact that you never read of two players getting into a brawl over the golf table and hitting each other on the head with a golf cue.

* * * * *

Those persons who feel sorry for Chick Evans because he can’t putt may like to know that Vardon and Ray, interviewed when they returned to England, agreed that “Evans with his new club is the best putter in the United States.”

* * * * *

Paying club dues for the three months beginning January first used to be our notion of zero in entertainment. We are obliged to lower the temperature twenty degrees since the war tax was added to the dues.

* * * * *

One of the things in golf most difficult to explain is “the feel of the clubhead.” We have tried to convey an idea of the sensation to persons who have solicited an opinion, but without success. Perhaps this will explain it: Take a full swing with the mashie for a chip shot of ten or twenty yards. Practise that for a while, and you will begin to discover that there is something at the end of the shaft.

* * * * *

The young woman with the golf club who appears on magazine covers or in railway folders is shown, as often as not, holding the implement in an exceedingly awkward manner. Artists of yesteryear were better observers. A reproduction of a painting, “The Golf Players,” by Pieter de Hooch (1630-1677), represents, for one item, a child holding a club as a Vardon of that period might have grasped it.

* * * * *

Mr. Topping is a well known American golfer, and the mention of his name has evoked many smiles and decrepit jests. It is not generally known, however, that he is related on the paternal side to the Hookers and on the other wing to the Slicers, two other celebrated clans whose lineage details occupy many pages in the _Almanac de Golfa_.

* * * * *

After prayerful consideration the Western Golf Association has ruled that as long as a golfer depends on the literary merits of his articles to sell them, he will retain his amateur standing. One could almost whittle a wheeze out of that.

THE DUB.

When Frederick was a little lad
He practised the pianner,
And practised it, we need not add,
In ladhood’s usual manner.

His progress was more slow than snail’s,
Of skill came no increase;
But Frederick would not practise scales—
He wished to “play a piece.”

At golf Fred cannot use his hands,
He has no sense of rhythm;
And yet he thinks he understands—
You cannot argue with’m.

Dub will remain his middle name
Till death shall him release.
He doesn’t care to LEARN the game—
He wants to “play a piece.”

* * * * *

When the Preacher observed that there was no new thing under the sun, he articulated a mouthful, as a contemporary slangily remarked of Demosthenes. A Denver man relates in the _Golfer’s Magazine_ that he keeps his eye off the ball, instead of on it, from the drive to the putt. Unlike the feat which we recently noticed on an oratorio programme, “Rest in the Ford,” this can be done. Several years ago we demonstrated to our own content that it was possible to use a mashie accurately while scrutinizing the flag, and during one season we putted while glaring at the hole; but in the longer shots we preferred more freedom of the neck—ours not being of the giraffe type—and so maintained an “eyes front” attitude. About that time Mr. Charles Clarke, professional to the Rothersham Club at York, published his “Common Sense Golf,” which contained this admonition:

“And most important of all, for putts of six feet and under, _look at the hole and not at the ball_. I know it is a very unorthodox thing to say, and it will require no little courage at first to get used to the method. But the difficulty exists only in the imagination; the lie of your ball is as nearly as possible perfect, and all the preliminary adjustments have been made. A back-swing of a few inches, and a short, firm tap is all that is required. Personally I have improved my holing out enormously since adopting this method, and there are days when I can scarcely miss a two-yard putt.”

Our hypothesis, which we arrived at independently of the Rothersham pro (as Adams located the planet Neptune “unbeknownst” to Leverrier) was challenged by Grantland Rice and Jerome Travers; and so we arranged a test with Mr. Rice. But a heavy shower interposed, and we agreed to try the thing on a new dog—Mr. Ring Lardner, who up to that time had not trifled with a golfing implement. He was required to putt eighteen holes while looking at the hole, and to repeat while looking at the ball. The result was slightly in favor of the latter method, but this was fairly attributable to increased familiarity with the putter. Personally (_sic_), we can putt as well one way as the other, and all that we ever maintained for the eye-on-hole style was that it would improve the work of one who putted badly. If a man putts well by any method, let him keep the even tenor of his way, nor heed the rumble of a distant drum.

* * * * *

Golf is advised for training camps by the War department, to counteract the tension of intensive training. The beneficial effect lies in the mental rest during the swing; from the moment the ball is addressed until it is struck the mind is an absolute blank. The poorer the player, the more strokes he takes, and the greater the mental rest.

WE’VE TRIED IT ON A GOLF BALL, BUT IT DOESN’T WORK.

Sir: In the Rotarian for this month: “Like a rubber ball, the Spirit of Rotary will not be cowed by any one.” Did you ever try to cow a rubber ball?

R. C. S.

* * * * *

The Empory Gazette admits that something is to be said for golf; that “a man can play the game without being hooted and abused as though he was a wife beater.” But the same can be said for every other game except baseball.

* * * * *

Isn’t the weather provokingly delightful? Here we have a compilation of verse, a novel, and a few smaller matters planned out, and the golfing weather persists out of reason.

HAVING THEIR SLICE OUT, MEBBE.

[From a Rockford contemp.]

GOLF SEASON CLOSES.

H. S. Wortham underwent a minor operation at Rockford hospital yesterday morning.