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Title: Mr. Punch's Golf Stories
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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[Illustration: GOLF STORIES]

       *       *       *       *       *

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Edited by J.A. HAMMERTON


Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the
cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic
draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch," from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day.


MR. PUNCH'S GOLF STORIES


[Illustration: GOLFER]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE GOLFER'S DREAM]

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH'S GOLF STORIES

TOLD BY HIS MERRY MEN

AND ILLUSTRATED BY

    PHIL MAY, GEORGE DU MAURIER, L. RAVEN-HILL, F.H. TOWNSEND, HARRY
    FURNISS, E.T. REED, BERNARD PARTRIDGE, F. PEGRAM, A.S. BOYD, A.T.
    SMITH, A. WALLIS MILLS, DAVID WILSON, C.E. BROCK, GUNNING KING, C.
    HARRISON, G.L. STAMPA, TOM BROWNE AND OTHERS


[Illustration: GOLFER]

_WITH 136 ILLUSTRATIONS_

PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

_Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated_

LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE
IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR
IRISH HUMOUR
COCKNEY HUMOUR
IN SOCIETY
AFTER DINNER STORIES
IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY
MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG
RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE
MR. PUNCH AFLOAT
IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL
BOOK OF SPORTS
GOLF STORIES
IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH
BOOK OF LOVE
WITH THE CHILDREN

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

THE HUMOUR OF GOLF


There are few pastimes that supply their followers with more innocent
merriment than is afforded by "the royal and ancient." Certainly no
outdoor game can make the neophyte feel more utterly worm-like in his
ability, for it is the peculiar quality of golf to appear to be absurdly
easy to the onlooker and preposterously difficult to the unpractised
player. It may be taken that there is no better way of reducing a man's
self-conceit than to place him on the teeing ground for the first time,
present him with a driver and invite him to strike a little rubber-cored
ball to a distance of 200 yards in a given direction. Consequently we
have here most excellent material for fun; and you may depend upon it
MR. PUNCH has not had his eyes long shut to the humours of the links.
Despite the royalty and antiquity of golf, it has been thoroughly
democratised in modern times, and its popularity, in the wide
proportions to which it has attained, is chiefly a matter of recent
years. Despite the shortness of the period that is represented by what
we may call the vogue of golf--a vogue that is by no means in danger of
passing--MR. PUNCH has evidently found the game so rich in fun that his
merry knights of the pen and the pencil have contributed to his pages as
many pictures as to illustrate very lavishly this volume and a good deal
more literary matter than could be used. In the days when croquet was as
popular as golf is to-day--the days of Leech and Keene--doubtless a
volume could have been drawn from PUNCH devoted entirely to that sport.
But it is worthy of note that an examination of these old croquet
pictures and jokes for a comparison of them with the contents of the
present volume leaves one with the conviction that the humour of the
present day is infinitely superior to the humour of the days of Leech
and Keene. Admirable draughtsmen though these artists were, both of
them, but Leech particularly, were often content to let their masterly
drawings appear with the feeblest jokes attached. The standard of humour
has been immensely raised of late years, and MR. PUNCH'S GOLF STORIES is
no bad evidence of that.

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUNCH'S GOLF STORIES

"GOLFERS AS I 'AVE KNOWN"

(_By a Caddie_)

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH]

Golfers I divides in me own mind into three clarses; them as 'its the
ball, them as skratches it, and them as neither 'its nor skratches the
blooming ball but turns rarnd and wants to 'it or skratch anyone as is
small and 'andy. The first clars is very rare, the second is dreadfull
plentifull, and the third, thank 'evins, can jeneraly be kep clear of by
them as knows the ropes. Sich as meself.

Any himprovement in golfers, as a clars, is doo to the 'uge morril
hinfluence of us caddies, 'oom some pretends to look down on. Much can
be done, even wif the most 'ardened (and some of them golfers is
dreadfull 'ardened), by firmness and hexample. "Show 'em from the fust
as you'll stand no nonsense," is allus my words when the yunger caddies
gathers ararn me fer hadvice. Me being older than me years, as the sying
is, and much looked up to. If, as I often 'ears say, there's less of
langwidge and more of golf upon these 'ere links, it's doo in no small
part to 'im 'oo pens these lines. 'Oo's 'onnered nime is 'Enery Wilks.

I seldom demmeans meself to speak to the kulprits, for severil reasons
which I shall not go into, but I 'ave other meffods. There's sniffing,
fer instance. Much can be done by jerdishous sniffing, which can be
chinged to soot all cases. Or there's a short, 'ard, dryish larf, but
that ain't allus sife. As a blooming rule, I rellies upon me sniff, me
smile and me eye. There's few of them as can meet the last when I chuses
to turn it on. Not as I objecs very strongly to a little 'onnest
cussing; it's hinjustice and false haccusashun as I will not stand.

Sich are me meffods to them as needs 'em, but don't think, becos at
times I'm cold like and 'ard and stern, that I cannot be jentle wif them
as call fer jentleness. No blooming errer! 'Enery Wilks is the lad to
'oom old gents in need of keerfull nussing should be hintrusted by their
wives and keepers. I'm not allooding now to old tigers 'oos stiple food
is red pepper in 'uge quantitties, 'oo turn upon yer like blooming
manniacks if yer blows yer nose quite inercent, and 'oo report yer
before yer know if you're standing on yer 'ead or yer 'eels. No, I'm not
allooding to old gentlemen like them! 'Enery Wilks 'as very little use
fer sich unguvverned creetures. In 'is erpinyun they should not be let
abrord without a chine. But I am allooding to them 'oos pashuns age 'as
tamed, insted of blooming well hincreesed, to jentle 'armless old
fellers, 'oo will almost eat out of yer 'and, as the sying is, an sich a
one is Mister Perceval Giggington.

Over sixty 'e is, and allus kind and civvil and respeckfull, but 'e 'as
no more haptitood fer golf than a jeerarf. Sometimes I thinks, musing
kindly like, as 'ow the old cove 'ud be yunger if 'e took the gime less
seerius. But 'Enery Wilks 'as little to reproche 'imself about; 'e, at
least, 'as done what 'e could to 'elp old Giggs. 'Is wife came down to
the Club 'Ouse wif 'im larst Toosday, jest as nice an old lidy as 'e's a
gent. She drew me on one side and spoke konfidenshul like, while the old
man was fussing and bleeting about 'is clubs. It seems as she'd 'eard of
me, and 'eard nuthing but good. Which is only right.

"'Enery," she ses, "me 'usband 'as set 'is 'art, as you well know, on
going rarnd the course in under an 'undred and thirty strokes. It's
beginning to tell on 'is 'ealth, the strine and diserpointment, and I
wants it stopped. 'E's going rarnd allone wif you now, as the course is
clear, and I wants," she ses, "_I wants you to see as 'e does it!_" she
ses.

Well, nobody, excep one ignerrant, gellous, preggerdiced skoolmaster,
'as ever dared to call 'Enery Wilks a fool. I took 'er meaning in a
moment, and I touched me cap, quiet and konfident like. "Mike yer mind
easy, mum," I ses in my korteous way. "It shall be done, this very day,
if 'Enery Wilks is spared," I ses.

She nods and smiles and slips a bob into me 'and, and then old Giggs
finishes wurrying abart 'is clubs and we makes a start. The old 'un
'ands 'is card to me to keep, and I speaks to 'im, kind like but firm.

"I'll keep the score, sir," I ses. "Don't yer wurry abart yer strokes at
all. What you've got to do is to koncentrite yer mind upon yer gime. For
we're a-goin to do it to-day," I ses. 'E 'ears me wif a little sorrerful
smile, and I lived up to them remarks. 'E'd arsk me at the end of an
'ole, that 'e'd fairly bitten along, 'ow many 'e'd taken, but I would
never tell 'im. I jest kep 'im upon 'is legs wif kindly, jerdishous
praise. Even after that 'ole where 'e'd strook me wif 'is ball from the
drive, although standing well be'ind 'im, and been in each bunker twice
or more, I give 'im a word of 'ope. It was niblick play and 'ope all
rarnd the blooming course. And at the end, when I added up 'is card,
strike me pink if 'is score weren't an 'undred and twenty-nine! And I
sent 'im 'ome to 'is wife, as pleased as any child. There's some, I
dessay, as would 'ave made 'is score an 'undred and nineteen or even
less, but 'Enery Wilks 'as allus known the virtew of modderation.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Caddie (visiting)._ "What kind o' player is he?"

_Caddie (engaged)._ "_'Im?_ He just plays as if it was for pleesure!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_McFoozler (after a steady sequence of misses)._

"Ah--er--is there a _limit_ for these links?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Policeman._ "Where did you get that bag?"

_Bill Sykes_ (_indignantly_). "There you are! Nice thing, in a free
country, that a man can't have a quiet hundred up without the police
interfering!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

Jones has recently taken up golf. He is already proficient in one
department--the art of addressing the ball.]

       *       *       *       *       *

II.

There's some as takes their golf too seerius fer their strength, like
that pore old Mister Giggington, of 'oom I've told yer, and there's some
as don't take it seerius enuff. Under this 'eading I places Mister
'Erminius Brellett. 'E's what they call a litterry cove in privit life,
and, wifout wishing to be undoolly 'arsh, I must say as I beleeves it of
'im. Strike me pink, if I didn't know as 'e was litterry, I should go
away sometimes after 'earing 'im talk, and swear a hinfer-mashun of
loonacy agin 'im! But Chawley Martin, one of our caddies, 'oo once spoke
quite hintermate and friendly like wif a reporter feller, in connecshun
wif a biking accerdent caused by Chawley's unforchernate pashun fer
trick riding, ses as 'ow all these pore riters is alike. So you and me
should only pitty them. As fer 'is golf, exsentrick ain't the word fer
it. 'E stands wif both 'is feet quite klose together, springs 'igh into
the air wif a tremenjus swing, and strikes the ball afore 'e comes to
earth agin. The erstonishing thing is that 'e does strike it abart once
in three, and when 'e does it goes like old Gewillikins. It just shows
as there ain't no rules abart some peeple's golf. But the sad part is as
'e's quite proud of 'is stile, insted of laberring to kerrect it under
my tewishun.


[Illustration:

"Keep your head still" is the first rule in golf, and Binks means
to do so.]

"I'm a mishonnery, a pyoneer of golf, 'Enery," 'e ses to me quite
recent. "'Ow I plays it to-day, the rest of the silly 'ide-bound
creetures will play it to-morrow," 'e ses.

"Let's 'ope not, sir," I ses, quite respeckfull and reely meaning the
words; fer, if yer think of it, a course full of Mister 'Erminius
Brelletts would be an 'iddeous sight. 'E glared at me fer a moment quite
dangerous, and then 'e began to larf. What wif 'is livver, at which 'e's
allus cussing, and 'is kurious 'arf-irriterble, 'arf-manniackal temper,
I can tell yer 'e takes some 'andling. But 'Enery Wilks knows 'is
'Erminius Brellett by this time.

"Your one chawnce of fime, you retched child," 'e ses, and I found 'is
stile of speaking jest a little gorling, "will rest on the fact that you
karried the clubs of 'Erminius Brellett, pyoneer of golf and
unerpreshiated riter of himmortal books," 'e ses. Well, yer can't argue
wif a man like that. Yer can only yumour 'im by respeckful silence, and
be reddy all the time to dodge if 'is manyer turns 'ommersidal all of a
sudden.

'E took on Mister Washer the other day, a member 'oom both 'e and I 'ave
little liking fer. At least, I can arnser fer meself. Fer 'e's one of
your pompus, strutting sort of fellers, 'oo thinks 'e's good at golf,
but ain't. I 'eard 'im chalenge Mister Brellett to play a rarnd fer
'arf-a-crown, and a less skilful stoodent of yuman nachure than 'Enery
Wilks could 'ave told as they didn't love each other. I 'ad a privit
tuppence on the match meself, wif old Washer's caddy, although not very
'opeful. 'Owever, when 'Enery Wilks' money is down, as the sying is,
'e's 'ard to beat.

But things went badly wif us from the start. I could see as 'ow Mister
Brellett was wurried abart somethink, and in addition to that 'e was
acktaly trying to play a keerful, sientifick gime. Oh, lumme, it was
orful, I can tell yer! We was skarcely touching a ball, and old Washer,
as pleesed as a turkey-kock but far less hornimental, was playing right
above 'isself. Fer a man like meself, 'oo'd staked above 'is means, it
was 'art-breaking. We lost five 'oles bang orf, and then Mister
Brellett spoke 'arf to me and 'arf to 'isself as we walked to the sixth
tee.

"It's all that cussed nime!" 'e ses. "If I could only think of that, I'd
be orlright. A female nime fer a kerrecter in my new book. 'Enery,
what's the nime of your yung woman?" 'e ses, joking like. Well, love
ain't much in my line, me ambishuns not letting me 'amper meself wif
wimmen, but still a feller 'as to keep 'is 'and in. I won't say as I
'aven't been more run after than most, but some'ow that ain't one of my
temptashuns. 'Owever, more to pleese 'er than meself, I lets one of
them, jest a school kiddy, walk out wif me at times. She means well, I
do believe, but I've allus reckoned as 'ow 'er nime's agin 'er.

"Hervangeline's 'er nime, Mister Brellett," I ses, deprerkating like.
"But she can't 'elp it," I ses.

"By Jewpiter!" 'e 'owls. "Hervangeline's the very nime I've been 'unting
for. And now I'll win this match!" 'e ses.

"You'll win it orlright, sir," I ses, ernest like. "But, for 'evin's
sake, stop playing sientifick! Play the old gime as you're pyoneer on,
sir," I ses.

"I beleeve as 'ow you're right, 'Enery," 'e ses, thoughtful like; and
then we come to the tee and watched old Washer drive 'is yusual
straight, shortish ball. Then Mister Brellett grips 'is club, takes 'is
yusual wicked, himmoril stance, springs 'igh into the air wif an
'arf-styfled yell, and, by Gewillikins, drives sich a ball as the pro.
'isself might 'ave been proud on! It knocked the kowardly 'art out of
old Washer, did that tremenjus drive; and 'e's a man as only plays 'is
best when 'e's winning easy. They 'ad a narsty lead, but we stuck to 'em
like wax, 'itting a turriffick ball once out of three, or even oftener,
and we won at last quite 'andsomely by three and two.

I remember as I bought bull's-eyes fer Hervangeline wif that 'ere
tuppence, becos in a meshure, as you may say, she'd 'ad an 'and in the
winning of it. 'Owever, wif a jenerosity unyusual in wimmen, she
hinsisted on sharing 'em wif 'Enery Wilks, 'oos skilful leedership 'ad
reely won the match.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Short-sighted Old Lady_ (_to little Binks, who is going to the
golf-links_). "How much will you charge me to mend this umbrella?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

TRIALS OF A NOVICE.--"_Something_ must be wrong. That's the third time
running I've used this club!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

! ! ! !

_Lily_ (_from Devonshire, on a visit to her Scotch Cousin Margy in St.
Andrews, N.B._). "What a strange thing fashion is, Margy! Fancy a game
like golf reaching up as far north as this!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HANDY CADDY

_Why Jones sold his Big St. Bernard and substituted a Tame Caribou,
which a friend brought him home from Canada._


[Illustration:

IT WAS SO HANDY WHEN GOING OUT GOLFING.

IT MADE SUCH A CAPITAL CADDY.

AND JONES COULD INDULGE IN EXPLETIVES WITHOUT BEING A BAD EXAMPLE

IF THE WEATHER SUDDENLY TURNED OFF COLD HE HAD ONLY TO HELP HIMSELF TO A
TOP COAT;

& IF IT RAINED TO AN UMBRELLA AND SOU'WESTER.

ALSO IT GAVE QUITE A PARK-LIKE APPEARANCE TO JONES' BACK GARDEN.]

       *       *       *       *       *

III.

Taking it all in all, 'Enery Wilks 'as very little use for wimmen.
Excep, of course, as playthings and rellaxashuns after toil. As sich I
regards Hervangerline, of 'oom I've told yer. That is, when 'er mood is
dosile. At sich times, when she is not trying to be yumourous or
utherwise acting the goat, the child can listen, wif doo respekt, whilst
'im she loves so well unbends 'isself. It is 'er privviledge to see
'Enery Wilks remove 'is stern cold marsk. Yuss, I tollerates
Hervangerline, but I 'ave little use fer uther wimmen.

Speaking quite frenkly, I can find little to kommend in the hexeckertive
of these 'ere links, but there is one of their resent hinnervashuns in
pertickler that fills me wif cold rage. This is the rule permitting lidy
members to play on the course, excep' on Satterday and Sunday.

Lord knows as 'ow the men is bad enuff to deal wif. 'Eadstrong, vain,
irriterble and pig-'eaded they mostly is, but oh! strike me pink and
purple, if they ain't fair angels, wings and all, kompared to those
dredfull, onreasoningable wimmen! Onreasoningable is the one word as I
can use to deskribe them. And that don't do 'em justise.

Wif a man, to some eggstent, you do know where you are. You do know from
eggsperiense 'ow fur you may go wif 'im, before 'e katches you a clump
on the side of the 'ead. But wif wimmen no eggsperiense will 'elp yer.
Becos there ain't no rules abart them.

Lord knows as 'ow I started out wif the idear of pleesing 'em. I ses to
Hervangerline, the evening I 'eard abart it, "We're going to 'ave lidies
on the course, kid," I ses. "Your 'Enery will 'ave to smarten 'isself up
a bit fer their dear sakes," I ses. Womanlike she begun to snif.

"You take care, 'Enery Wilks," she ses worningly. "You take care of them
desining 'ussies. There's many of 'em as will be after you, I knows it
well. Fer some wimmen," she ses, sort of sarkastic, "some wimmen will go
after anythink in trarsers," she ses. Well, I wears nickers meself as a
general rule, but I knowed what she meant. And, though of course I 'id
it from her, pertending to be kontemptewous, I found 'er words quite
pleesing. I thort to meself, komplasent like, as 'ow some of these lidy
members might show a prefferrence fer that one of our caddies as is
pollished and korteous and older than 'is years. But, apparriently, both
I and Hervangerline was rong--iddeously rong.

Fer it's no good konseeling from meself, at anyrate, as 'ow I 'aven't
been a komplete success so fur wif our lidy members. Why sich should be
the case I cannot tell, but there it is. There's a preggerdise agin me
as is kep' alive by the ontiring, revengfull tungs of Miss Trigsie
Kornish and Missis Jossephus 'Askins. And this is 'ow that preggerdise
begun.

They come along one morning and say as 'ow they're going to play a
rarnd, and they'll share a caddy between them. And to my ondying greef
they picked on 'Enery Wilks. Not as there was anythink surprising in
their doing that. In their place I'd 'ave picked on 'im meself. And I'm
bound in justise to say as there was nothing in _their_ appeerance to
set me agin them. Missis 'Askins is very yung and plessant-looking,
although she _is_ married, and Miss Kornish is darkish and carries
'erself wif a sort of swing. No, their looks was rite enuff; it was only
their dredfull 'abit of cheating as made the trubble.

They started as frendly as love-birds, but by the second 'ole the fur
was beginning to stand up stiff upon their backs. It was their orful
onguvernabul keenness as did it. On the third green Missis 'Askins asks
Miss Kornish 'ow many she's played, and she tells 'er, nine, quite brisk
like. Now both Misses 'Askins and meself _knew_ quite well as
'ow Miss Kornish 'ad played ten; indeed, I could see as ow Misses
'Askins thort it were eleven. They rangles a bit abart it, growing
gradewally more 'eated, and then Misses 'Askins erpeals to me, and I
gives it in 'er favour, trying very 'ard to rap it up plessant like.
Miss Kornish glares at me like a cat 'oom you've mannidged to 'it wif a
brick whilst it's taking a stroll quite inercent and leshurely; but she
doesn't say much and we goes on.

Two 'oles later it all 'appens agin, only this time it's Missis 'Askins
'oo 'as kondescended to redooce 'er score. They rages rarnd upon the
green, and then Miss Kornish erpeals to me, and truth kompels me to
erward the 'ole to 'er. This time it's Missis 'Askins 'oo glarnces at me
as though she'd like to cut orf my yung life. But 'Enery Wilks can stand
a lot of that.

So we goes on agin, wif the air growing 'eavier like, and three 'oles
later they both erpeals to me, fer both is cheating. It was an 'ard
posishun fer a yung feller as is only wishfull to pleese. 'Owever, I
desided to give pore old Truth another chawnce; although misdoubtfull.
So I ses to them quite respeckfull like, as 'ow both their scores is
inakkerite and should I keep them both in fuchure?

Oh Lumme, I'd like to forgit what 'appened then! All in a moment those
two young wimmen grew frendly agin to each other and konsentrited all
their rage and spite on 'Enery Wilks. They fell upon me wif their tungs,
and I felt as though I was being 'it wif barbed wire and nettels. They
called me "impudent little boy," me the chosin 'ero of the yunger
caddies, and I could only garsp and trimble. Their crewel thretts
brought tears even to my proud eyes, and I almost beleeve as 'ow I
grovvellel before them. It 'urts me to remember it.

When at last they 'ad tired themselves out, they finished their rarnd as
though they 'ad never 'ad an unkind thort towards each other, and I
slunk be'ind them, dased and silent, like a puppy 'oos been kicked.

And that's--that's what comes of edmitting wimmen to a golf corse!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE BOGEY COMPETITION"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Little Albert_ (_always thirsting for knowledge_).
"Uncle, do they pronounce that rico_chay_ing or rico_chet_ting?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

1. "Carry your clubs, guvnor, for sixpence!"

   "No, thanks, I don't require a caddie."

2. "Carry yer clubs for fourpence, boss!"

   "Go away, boy, I'll carry 'em myself."

3. "Carry 'em for thrippence, mister"

   (no response).

4. A smash!

5. (_After the smash_).

   "I say, captain, I'll carry _your_ clubs for nothin', _jist for
   the fun of the thing_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S PATENT CADDIE CAR]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Golf is now being played on the Norman Coast]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Golf is being played very much in Egypt]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A NEW DISEASE--THE GOLF TWIST]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

The above caddie (in the course of his third round with Colonel Foozle,
who always takes out a collection of two dozen clubs, if only for the
look of the thing) begins to doubt if he, the caddie, really belongs to
the idle classes, as stated in the papers.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

"HOW'S THAT, UMPIRE?"

_Golf Player._ "Now then, what are you grinning at, boy? Don't you know
where the ball is?"

_Caddie._ "Yus, sir, I know, sir. Please, sir, that there dun cow 've
swallered it!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

SCENE--_Country Police Court_

_Magistrate._ "My boy, do you fully realise the nature of an oath?"

_Boy._ "Well, I oughter, considerin' the times I've caddied for yer!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Miggs and Griggs, who have got away for a week-end holiday, have
strayed on to the golf links, and have been watching the colonel, who
has been bunkered for the last ten minutes--and the language!!_

_Miggs._ "What's he doing?"

_Griggs._ "I dunno. Think he's trying to kill something."]


IV.

Yumin nachure is a kurius thing. I dunno whether this thort 'as okkurred
to other peeple, but I sees the truth of it more clearly every day. You
may studdy a man fer weeks and think as 'ow you know 'im inside out, and
then, when you try to make some use of 'is pecooliarities, they ain't
working that day, or else some little hannoying trifle spiles your well
lade skeems. Sich was the sad case of Mister Hoctavius Glenwistle and my
friend Chawley Martin.

Mister Glenwistle is an oldish jentleman now, but in 'is day 'e 'as been
a famus eggsplorer. Jeograffy never being my strong point, I dunno
egsackly where 'e went eggsploring, or why 'e did it. Chawley Martin,
'oo's jenerally 'is caddie, is my hinformant, and some days 'e will 'ave
it that Mister Glenwistle would once 'ave reached the Pole if 'is boots
'adn't guv out, and at other times 'e hinsists that it was Africer that
'e visited. I dunno, meself; per'aps the old jentleman 'as been to both
them regins in 'is time. But any'ow all is agreed that once 'e lived for
nearly three weeks upon an oldish poodle dawg--which is an orfull
thort.

Sich an eggspeerience must leeve its mark upon any man, 'owever strong.
It 'as left its mark upon Mister Hoctavius Glenwistle. Every blade of
'air 'as vannished from 'is skalp, and 'is face is a sort of dark brick
colour wif light eyebrows. 'E still suffers from sunstroke, and Chawley
Martin 'as to carry a large red umbereller round the links to pertect
'is 'ead.

I dunno whether it's the sunstroke, or whether it's 'is ondying remorce
for that pore faithfull poodle, but Mister Glenwistle suffers terrible
from absentmindedness. 'E 'as been known to swing up 'is great, red
umbereller upon the tee and try to drive wif that, and Chawley Martin
allus 'as to watch 'im keerfull to see what 'e'll be up to next. 'E
'ates to be disturbed when in one of 'is mooning fits, and is apt to
swear terrible in some forrin' langwidge, which Chawley thinks is
Eskimo; but still 'e's a jentleman all over, is Mister Hoctavius
Glenwistle. 'Is tips is 'andsome, and it don't give 'im no pleshure to
repport an 'armless lad.

One Sunday lately 'e came down wif a frend for an 'ole day's golf.
Chawley Martin, as yusual, was 'is caddie, and I ondertook the
manidgement of the frend. All went well in the morning, excep' that
Mister Glenwistle fell into a sort of dream upon the seventh green and
'ad to be rarsed by Chawley. It may 'ave been Eskimo that 'e spoke to
the boy when 'e'd touched 'im jently on the arm, but it sounded
wuss--much wuss.

'Owever, we comes back at one to the club-'ouse, red umbereller and all,
like _Robbinson Crewso_, and they goes into lunch. Whilst they're still
laying into the grub like winking, I and Chawley Martin, 'aving eaten
our own frugil meal, sit down near the 'club-'ouse and begin to polish
up their clubs. We fell a-talking about the great science of golf,
getting quite 'eated in a little while, and at last Chawley, to
illerstrate 'is own mistakin theery, gets upon 'is 'ind legs. 'E takes
Mister Glenwistle's best driver from 'is bag and shows me what 'e calls
"a full swing, wif every ounce of weight and rist and mussel crammed
into it."

I was afeard 'ow it would be. The length of the club mastered 'im. 'E
'it the onoffending turf a crewel blow, and there was a narsty crack. 'E
sits down beside me wif a garsp, and we looks at Mister Glenwistle's pet
driver wif the 'ead 'arf off.

"What's to be done, 'Enery?" 'e ses, after a sort of sickly pawse.

Fer my part I'd been thinking 'ard, me brain being better than most.

"There's three courses open to you, Chawley, me lad," I ses quietly.
"You can do a guy at once, and not come back--that's one; or you can
tell Mister G. as you've been fooling wif 'is clubs--that's another," I
ses, and waited fer 'is risponse.

"Let's 'ear the third," he ses gloomily.

"Deceat is aborrent to my nachure," I ses. "But you're made diferent,
Chawley. You could make use of 'is absentmindedness and let 'im think as
'e broke it 'isself. 'Old it out to 'im wif a sort of winning smile,
when 'e comes, and say as 'ow you're afrade it will 'ave to be mended
after all. It's a fair sportin' chawnce," I ses.

"'Enery, you're a fair marvel!" 'e ses, after pondering fer a minute.
"I'll try it on," he ses. And so we left it.

I didn't see the meeting between Mister Glenwistle and 'is well-meaning
caddie, becos my klient sent me to get him a ball, but when I came back
I seed as 'ow Chawley was sniffing slightly, and 'is large outstanding
ears was reddened. 'Is manner was coldish like to me, but when the two
'ad drivin, I asked 'im what 'ad 'appened.

"'E just boxed me ears," Chawley ses, "and told me as 'ow 'e'd repport
me if I lied to 'im agen," 'e ses.

Fer once I was reely taken aback.

"I can't make it out, Chawley," I ses. "Where was 'is yusual
absentmindedness? It just shows as 'ow you can't depend on nuthing in
this world! Did you do as I told you, winning smile and all?" I asks
'im.

"Yuss, I did," 'e ses, snappish like. "But it seems as 'ow 'is
interfeering frend 'appened to look out of the club-'ouse when I was
showing you that swing, and seed it all. Anuther time you can keep your
winning smiles and your fat-'eaded hadvice to yourself, 'Enery Wilks!"
'e ses.

I didn't answer 'im, remembering 'ow 'is 'uge progecting ears was
tingling, but I ses to meself, "So much, 'Enery Wilks, for yumin
gratitood!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

Mr. Mothdriver, the famous, yet absent-minded, golf-naturalist,
invariably carries a butterfly-net in his golf-bag--for he agrees with
Mr. Horace Hutchinson that some of the best entomological specimens can
be captured in the course of playing the royal and ancient game.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Brer Rabbit._ "I suppose you haven't seen such a thing as a golf-ball
about anywhere, have you?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_First Enthusiast._ "I say, will you play another round with me on
Thursday?"

_Second Enthusiast._ "Well, I'm booked to be married on that day--_but
it can be postponed_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

THE GOLF STREAM.--Flows along the eastern coast of Scotland during the
summer and autumn.

(Vide _Report of British Association--Section V._).]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

REAL ENJOYMENT.--_Non-Golfer_ (_middle-aged, rather stout, who would
like to play, and has been recommended it as healthy and amusing_).
"Well, I cannot see where the excitement comes in in this game!"

_Caddie._ "Eh, mon, there's more swearing used over golf than any other
game! D'ye no ca' that excitement?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

V.

A little success at golf, as I've notised, jenerally makes a man wish
for more. Like the appertite of a young girl for chocerlates. I dunno if
you remember that nice old Mister Giggington, of 'oom I told you. Under
my skillfull gidance, and with the ade of a little inercent 'anky-panky,
'e kontrived to wander rarnd these 'ere links in an 'undred and
twenty-nine. Well, ever since that serprising triemph, 'e 'as been
'ungering for fresh feelds to konker, as you might say.

"I want to meet someone, 'Enery, as I can beat," 'e kep' saying, quite
truckewlent like. "I don't pretend as 'ow I'm brillyent, but on my day I
do fancy that there's wuss."

"You keep on practising steddy, sir," was my invariable words, "and one
of these days we shall see you winning cups and medils."

As nice and kind an old jentleman as ever smashed a club is Mister
Giggington, but I allus 'ave to 'andle 'im like eggs to prevent 'im
losing 'art. I didn't think as 'ow even 'Enery Wilks would be able to
grattify 'is 'armless ambishun, but the uther day I saw my chawnce.

It was a Toosday morning, and the course was quite disserted, excep' for
Mister G., 'oo was waiting to start a practice rarnd wiv 'is pashunt
teecher. Which is me. And then a new member come along 'oo was wishfull
for a game, and dirrectly I set eyes on 'im, somethink, hinstink, I
suppose, seemed to tell me that 'ere was the man for 'oom I 'ad been
waiting.

'E was French, and I shall not attempt to rite 'is name, the 'ang of
which I never reely kawt. 'E was a small, darkish, jornty man, and 'is
garmints was a little briter and more cheerfull-looking than you see in
England. 'E wore, among uther things, a deer-storker 'at wiv a fevver
stuck in it. But 'is manners was reelly bewtifull. It was quite a site
to see 'im click 'is 'eels togevver, and bow to my himployer, and in a
minute they 'ad fixed their match. I 'ad 'inted to Mister G. that 'e
must hinsist on 'aving a stroke an 'ole, and that was 'ow they settled
it. I never lerned what the Frenchman's 'andicap was, but if the
Champyon 'isself 'ad offered to take strokes from 'im 'e would 'ave
closed gladly wiv the offer. And yet there was reelly nuthing erfensive
about the little man.

I could see as 'ow pore old Mister G. was trimbling wiv a sort of
serpressed egsitement, and I wispered to 'im that 'e must play steddy
and use the niblick whenever possibul. The niblick, from long practice
in the bunkers, is 'is club.

Me frend, Chawley Martin, was the Frenchman's caddie, and 'e took
ercasion to remmark to me that we seemed in for somethink warmish. I
checked the boy wiv one of my glawnces, and then we waited while 'is
hemployer took the 'onner. That jentleman danced up to the tee, waving
rarnd 'is head the longest and the bendiest driver that I 'ave ever
seen, and 'e didn't trubble to address the ball at all. 'E just sprung
at it and 'it it wiv all 'is might, and somethink fairly wistled past
Chawley's 'ead as 'e stood a little be'ind the tee box. The Frenchman
'ad sliced at rite angels, and for anythink I know 'is ball is still in
the air. Certingly, we never saw it agin.

That slite misforchune appeered to egsite and dimmoralise Chawley's
himployer, 'oo may 'ave been quite a brillyent player on 'is day, and I
may say at once that 'e never reelly found 'is game. On the uther 'and
it seemed to put new life and vigger into Mister G. Our erponent was
appariently trying 'ard to do each 'ole in a brillyent one, but we was
quite content to win them in a steddy nine.

We 'ad our misforchunes, of course. 'Is deerest frend wouldn't 'ardly
say as 'ow Mister G.'s game is a long one, and each bunker seems to 'ave
a sort of magnettick attrackshun for 'is ball, but whilst the
Frenchman's brassey remained unbroken we knew that there was allus a
chawnce for the 'ole. For 'arf the rarnd it stood the crewel strane and
then it didn't break. It jest seemed to sort of dissolve into small
peaces. But we was two up by then and our tails was 'igh in air.

As for the Frenchman, 'is meffods at times was reelly serprising. After
that first drive Chawley lade 'isself down flat when 'is hemployer
drove, but even in that posishun it didn't seem 'ardly safe. That long,
thin, bendy driver sent the ball to all 'ites and all angels, but never
once in a strate line. After a wile 'e diskarded it, and guv a fair,
'onnest trial to every club in 'is bag in turn. I should never 'ave been
serprised to see 'im drive desperit like wiv 'is putter, but even then
Chawley wouldn't 'ave dared say nuthink. 'E was quite a plessant,
jentlemanly little man, but it didn't do to argue wiv 'im. 'E begun to
scream and stamp at once, and Chawley saw pretty soon that it was best
and safest to let 'im play 'is own game.

It was on the fiftienth green that the great match was ended. Mister
Giggington's pluck and stamminer 'ad been amasing for 'is age, but the
strane and the joyfull egsitement was beginning to tell on 'im. The
Frenchman tried to bring off a thirty-yard putt to save the 'ole, and
failed by some forty yards. But 'e took 'is defeet like a nero. They
shook 'ands on the green and 'e said that it warmed 'is 'art to reflect
on the glory that 'is frendly foe 'ad won. I beleeve as 'ow there was
tears in the old jentleman's eyes. 'E turned to me and I quite thort 'e
was going to grasp my 'and, but instead of that 'e put a bob into it
which was pretty near as good.

'E 'll never make a golfer, but 'Enery Wilks will allus be pleesed and
proud to gide 'im rarnd the course.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A RULING PASSION.--_Mr. Meenister MacGlucky_ (_of the Free Kirk, after
having given way more than usual to an expression "a wee thing
strong"--despairingly_). "Oh! Aye! Ah, w-e-el! I'll hae ta gie 't up!"
_Mr. Elder MacNab._ "Wha-at, man, gie up gowf?" _Mr. Meenister
MacGlucky._ "Nae, nae! Gie up the meenistry!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A POSER.--"Farmers always grumbling? Well, supposin' your pigs were
down wi' th' fever, an' your sheep had got th' influenza, if your crops
were drownded in eighteen inches o' water, an' your rent were
overdue--what would you do?"

"I? I'd give it up and start a golf club!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

INGRATITUDE

_Brown._ "Why doesn't Walker stop to speak? Thought he knew you!"

_Smith._ "Used to; but I introduced him to the girl he married. Neither
of them recognises me now!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

GOLF

(_As "Put" by D. Crambo Junior._)

[Illustration:

"Putting" on the "links"

The "tee" and the "caddie"

A showy manner of handling the "clubs"

A full drive

A beautiful "iron" shot

The "spoon"

The "cleek"

"Holed out"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A MORNING PERFORMANCE]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

FORE!

"Now, sir, be judge yourself, whether I in any just term am affin'd to
love the Moor."

                                             [_Othello_, Act I., Sc. 1.]

]

       *       *       *       *       *

VI.

'Onnesty is the best pollicy, and, 'Evin knows, 'Enery Wilks 'as allus
tried 'is levil best to live up to them golden words. But I reckon there
is certain excepshuns to the cast-iron 'onnesty of all of us, and every
yumin being 'as 'is little weakness. Mine is golf balls.

Tips is well enuff in their way, and I 'ave nuthing at all to say agin
them, but the present of a good ball is far more pleesing to the 'art of
'Enery Wilks. Praps it's becos of 'is allmost inkonquerabul pride which
shrinks at times from taking munney from them 'oom 'e feels to be 'is
equils or hinfeeriors; or praps it grattifies 'is artistick nachure to
be given the himplements of that great sience which 'e onderstands so
well. Any'ow golf balls is my temptashun, and one which once or twice in
the course of my 'onnerabul kareer I 'ave allowed meself to yeeld to.

Some golfers will ercashunally 'and you tuppence or an 'arf-used ball,
wif a jenial word of thanks for your attenshuns which is worth more to a
proud nachure than the gift itself. And there's uthers 'oo never think
of doing nuthink of the sort. Among _them_ is Mister Schwabstein, 'oo is
not French or Scotch, as you might think from 'is name, but German, wiv
praps a touch of Jentile.

'E's a man what catches the eye on the links, it being 'is constant and
hannoying 'abbit to were a peaked yotting cap, large specks, and a white
silk coat which was once a good deal whiter. An egsellent sort of
person, I dessay, in the 'ome sircle, but 'ardly what you'd call a
brillyent success upon the links. They say as 'ow 'e 'as more munney
than 'e ritely knows what to do wiv, but I fancy 'e's made it by never
giving any of it away. 'Owever, 'Enery Wilks 'as done 'is best to put
that rite.

Let me diskribe to you a rarnd which 'e played the uther day wiv Mister
'Erminius Brellett, our litterry member, 'oo allus seems to go out of
'is way to play wiv kurious people. I 'ave taken Mister Schwabstein in
charge before, but never 'ave I seen 'is pecooliarities so noticeabul as
on that day.

'E took the 'onner, and for about three minutes 'e addressed the ball
wiv 'is 'uge, thick, ugly driver, which 'as always rarsed my
perfessional hindignashun. 'E swung at last, quite slow like, but wiv
all 'is great weight and strength piled into it. I shall never know
egsackly what 'e did, becos the tees was dry, and for the moment I was
'arf blinded by the dust. But there was a thud and a krackling snap, and
two things was flying through the thick, dusty air. Them two missils was
the ball and the 'ead of the driver, and they fell togevver thirty yards
from the tee. 'E said somethink which I couldn't catch and didn't want
to, and walked rarnd in a slow sircle, smiling to 'isself. 'E's a man
'oo allus smiles. It often seems to me that it is 'is misforchune.

Then Mister Brellett took one of 'is yusual springing drives, which
'appened to come off, and 'e won that fust 'ole on 'is head. Mister
Schwabstein kontrived to redooce 'is brassey to fragmints at the second
'ole; and after that he took out 'is niblick, and nuthing wouldn't
perswade 'im to put it back. 'E drove wiv that niblick, and 'e played
'is many shots through the green wiv it. And the way that thick strong
niblick eat into the turf was enuff to brake the 'art of 'Enery Wilks.
We moved slowly forward, leaving be'ind us a line of crewel deep
kassims, which nuthink wouldn't fill up. And 'is stile of bunker play
was equilly distrucktive.

'Is noshun of getting out was to distroy the wall of the bunker wiv
reppeated blows, and then to force 'is ball throo the rewings. I
wouldn't 'ave belleeved that meer wood and iron could 'ave done the work
that that one German niblick did wivout turning an 'air.

'E only smiled 'is slow smile when Mister Brellett or meself venchured a
remmonstrance, and 'e would never pick up 'is ball. 'E persevered wiv
each 'ole until at last 'e 'ad pushed the ball into the tin, and then 'e
would turn and pat my 'ead wiv 'is large 'and. After the fust time I
jenerally dodged, and once 'e turned and patted Mister Brellett's 'ead
by accerdent. Like most litterry jents, the latter is rather touchy, and
there was neerly trouble; but some'ow, thanks to Mister Schwabstein's
apparent onconshusness of offense, it was erverted.

At the thirteenth 'ole Mister Brellett was five up. Mister Schwabstein
put down a new ball, wiv a sort of groan, and pulled it wiv 'is niblick
right rarnd into the rough. For a long two minnutes we 'unted 'igh and
low, but nowhere could we find that ball. If I'd seen it I would 'ave
handed it over at once, sich being my boundin dooty. But I never did see
it. There was jest one little place in that rough where some'ow it
didn't seem worth while looking. We 'ad to erbandon it at last; and
Mister Schwabstein lost the 'ole and the match.

Later in the day I wandered down on a sort of ferlorn 'ope to that bit
of rough, and kuriously enuff I walked bang on to that ball. There was
severil courses open to me. I might 'ave 'anded it over to the
orthorities, or I might 'ave kep' it as a memmentoe of Mister
Schwabstein's unfaling jenerosity and kortesy. But 'Enery Wilks didn't
see 'is way to doing either of them two things. 'E jest disposed of that
fine new ball to the very best hadvantage.

       *       *       *       *       *

GOLFING NOTES

"Denmark is the latest of the Continental nations to receive
golf."--_The Tatler._

[Illustration:

But golf must have flourished at Denmark in Hamlet's time, judging by
the above reproduction of a very ancient mural decoration which has just
come to light.

See also quotation _Hamlet_, Act II., Scene 2:--" ... drives; in rage,
strikes wide!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

ENCOURAGEMENT.--_Professional Golfer_ (_in answer to anxious question_).
"Weel, no, sir, at your time o' life, ye can never hope to become a
_player_; but if ye practise hard for three years, ye may be able to
tell good play from bad when ye see it!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Bertie_ (_to caddie, searching for lost ball_). "What are you looking
there for? Why, I must have driven it fifty yards further!"

_Diplomatic Caddie._ "But sometimes they hit a stone, sir, and bounce
back a terrible distance!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Old Hand._ "Ah, I heard you'd joined. Been round the links yet?"

_New Hand._ "Oh, yes. Went yesterday."

_Old Hand._ "Whot did you go round in?"

_New Hand._ "Oh, my ordinary clothes!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

GOLFING AMENITIES.

(_Overheard on a course within 100 miles of Edinburgh_).--_Hopeless
Duffer_ (_who continually asks his caddy the same question, with much
grumbling at the non-success of his clubs_). "And what shall I take
now?"

_His Unfortunate Partner_ (_whose match has been lost and game
spoilt, at last breaking out_). "What'll ye tak noo! The best thing ye
can tak is the fower fifteen for Edinburgh!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PEDANTRY OF SPORT.--_First Golf Maniac._ I played a round with
Captain Bulger the other day.

_Second G.M._ When did you get to know him?

_First G.M._ Oh, about the end of the Gutty Ball period.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Cheerful Beginner_ (_who has just smashed the Colonel's favourite
driver_). "Oh, now I see why you have to carry so many clubs!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Golfer]

TEE, TEE, ONLY TEE!

(_Song of the Golf Enthusiast. After Thomas Moore_)

    AIR--"_Thee, thee, only thee._"

    The dawn of morn, the daylight's sinking,
    Shall find me on the Links, and thinking,
        Of Tee, Tee, only Tee!
    When rivals meet upon the ground,
        The Putting-green's a realm enchanted,
    Nay, in Society's giddy round
        My soul, (like Tooting's thralls) is haunted
          By Tee, Tee, only Tee!

    For that at early morn I waken,
    And swiftly bolt my eggs and bacon,
        For Tee, Tee, only Tee!
    I'm game to start all in the dark,
        To the Links hurrying--resting never.
    The Caddie yawns, but, like a lark,
        I halt not, heed not, hastening ever
          To Tee, Tee, only Tee!

    Of chilly fog I am no funker,
    I'll brave the very biggest bunker,
        For Tee, Tee, only Tee!
    A spell that nought on earth can break
        Holds me. Golf's charms can ne'er be _spoken_;
    But late I'll sleep, and early wake,
        Of loyalty be this my token,
            To Tee, Tee, only Tee!

       *       *       *       *       *

Golf caddies are now very much in the public eye. The education of some
of them is certainly not all that it should be. "Here's an honour for
us!" cried one of them excitedly the other day, as he pointed to a
paragraph in the paper headed, "King Alfonso visits Cadiz."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SCIENCE OF GOLF

     [A certain make of field-glasses is advertised just now as
     "suitable for golf-players, enabling them before striking to select
     a favourable spot for the descent of their ball." There can be
     little doubt that this brilliant hint will be further developed,
     with some such results as those outlined in the following
     anticipation.]


As I told Jones when he met me at the clubhouse, it was a year or more
since I had last played, so the chances were that I should be a bit
below form. Besides, I was told that the standard of play had been so
raised----

"Raised? I should just think it has!" said Jones. "Why, a year ago they
played mere skittles--not what you could properly call golf. Got your
clubs? Come along then. Queer old-fashioned things they are, too! And
you're never going out without your theodolite?

"Well," I said with considerable surprise, "the fact is, I haven't got
one. What do you use it for?"

"Taking levels, of course. And--bless me, you've no inflater, or
glasses--not even a wind-gauge! Shall I borrow some for you?--Oh, just
as you like, but you won't be able to put up much of a game without
them."

"Does your caddie take all those things?" I asked, pointing to the
curious assortment of machinery which Jones had put together.

"My caddies do," he corrected. "No one takes less than three nowadays.
Good; there's only one couple on the first tee, so we shall get away in
half an hour or so."

"I should hope so!" I remarked. "Do you mean that it will be half an
hour before those men have played two shots?"

"There or thereabouts. Simkins is a fast player--wonderful head for
algebra that man has--so it may be a shade less. Come and watch him;
then you'll see what golf is!"

And indeed I watched him with much interest. First he surveyed the
country with great care through a field-glass. Then he squinted along a
theodolite at a distant pole. Next he used a strange instrument which
was, Jones told me, a wind-gauge, and tapped thoughtfully at a
pocket-barometer. After that he produced paper and pencil, and was
immersed apparently in difficult sums. Finally, he summoned one of his
caddies, who carried a metal cylinder. A golf ball was connected to this
by a piece of india-rubber tubing, and a slight hissing noise was
heard.

"Putting in the hydrogen," explained Jones. "Everything depends upon
getting the right amount. New idea? Not very; even a year ago you must
have seen pneumatic golf balls--filled with compressed air? Well, this
is only an obvious improvement. There, he's going to drive now."

And this he did, using a club unlike anything I had seen before. Then he
surveyed the putting-green--about half a mile away--through his glasses,
and remarked that it was a fairish shot, the ball being within three
inches of the hole. His companion, who went through the same lengthy
preliminaries, was less fortunate. In a tone of considerable disgust he
announced that he had over-driven the hole by four hundred yards.

"Too much hydrogen," murmured Jones, "or else he got his formulæ
muddled. Well, we can start now. Shall I lead the way?"

I begged him to do so. He in turn surveyed the country, consulted
instruments, did elaborate sums, inflated his ball.

"Now," he said, at length settling into his stance, "now I'll show you."

And then he missed the ball clean.

... Of course he ought not to have used such language, and yet it was a
sort of relief to find _something_ about the game which was entirely
unchanged.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A LAST RESORT.--_Miss Armstrong_ (_who has foozled the ball six times
with various clubs_). "And which of the sticks am I to use now?"

_Weary Caddie._ "Gie it a bit knock wi' the bag!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Caddie_ (_in stage whisper to Biffin, who is frightfully nervous_).
"Don't you get nervous, sir. It's all right. I've told every one of
'em you can't play!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Fitzfoozle_ (_a beginner, who is "teaching" a lady on the men's links,
and loses a club_). "Pardon me, sir. Have you seen a lady's club
anywhere?"

_Admiral Peppercorn_ (_very irate at being delayed, wishes ladies would
play on their own course_). "No, sir, but there's a goose club at the
'Pig and Whistle,' I believe. Try that!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ROYAL AND ANCIENT RECORDS.--The _Glasgow Evening Times_ displayed the
following headings on the occasion of His Majesty's visit to North
Berwick:--

VISIT TO THE GOLF COURSE.

A DRIVE THROUGH THE TOWN.

This, of course, constitutes a new record, the old one standing at about
330 yards.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GOLFER'S FRIEND AFTER LONG DRIVES--The Tea-Caddy.

       *       *       *       *       *

GOLF MOTTO.--The "Hole" hog or none.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Golfer, whose ball has lodged under stone, has had several unsuccessful
shots, and finally, with a tremendous stroke, smashed his club._

_Old Man._ "You put me in moind of my old jackass."

_Golfer._ "What d'you mean, you idiot?"

_Old Man._ "Yer've got more strength than knowledge!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE MOAN OF THE MAIDEN

(_After Tennyson_)


    Golf! Golf! Golf!
        By the side of the sounding sea;
    And I would that my ears had never
        Heard aught of the "links" and the "tee."

    Oh, well for the man of my heart,
        That he bets on the "holes" and the play;
    Oh, well for the "caddie" that carries
        The "clubs," and earns his pay.

    He puts his red coat on,
        And he roams on the sandy hill;
    But oh! for the touch of that golfer's hand,
        That the "niblick" wields with a will.

    Golf! Golf! Golf!
        Where the "bunkers" vex by the sea;
    But the days of Tennis and Croquet
        Will never come back to me!

       *       *       *       *       *

VIRGIL ON GOLF.--"Miscueruntque herbas et non innoxia verba."
_Georgics_, 3, 283.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO CORRESPONDENTS.--"An Inexperienced Golfer" writes to inquire whether
what he has heard about "the Tee Duty" will in any way affect the
"caddies."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

WILLING TO COMPENSATE.--_Mrs. Lightfoot._ "Oh, wait a minute,
Mr. Sharp--don't drive yet. My husband is still on the green." _Mr.
Sharp._ "Never mind. I'll risk it. For if I _do_ bowl him over, why,
I'm ready to replace him any time!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

CAPABLE CADDIES


Rumour has it that a movement is on foot amongst a certain section of
the golfing public to ensure that for the future all caddies on English
links shall be compelled to furnish satisfactory proof that they are
physically and morally qualified for the porterage and cleaning of
clubs, and acquainted with the more rudimentary principles of the game.
To this end, it is reported, an entrance examination paper is in course
of preparation, in which individuals aspiring to official recognition as
caddies will be required to obtain a percentage of at least eighty
marks. The following questions are said to have been already drafted:--

1. Write your name, legibly if possible, in the top right-hand corner of
the sheet.

     (Do not trouble to insert your nickname, as it is a matter of
     indifference to the examiners whether you are locally known as
     "Tiger," "Ginger," or "Bill Bailey.")

2. State your age. If this is less than six, or more than seventy-five
years, you may omit the remaining questions and retire at once from the
examination.

3. Are you married or single? Give reasons for your answer.

4. Illustrate the finer points of distinction between

     (_a_) a niblick and a gutty;

     (_b_) a bye and a bulger.

5. Are you a Protectionist or a Total Abstainer?

6. Rewrite the following passage, correcting anything that may strike
you as an error or an incongruity:--"In an 18-hole match, X., a scratch
player with a handicap of 20, stood dormy 12 at the 17th hole, but while
half-way through the final green was unfortunate enough to get badly
bunkered behind the tee-box. Being required to play 'two more' to his
opponent Y., who had laid himself dead in 6, he only played one of them,
thus holing out in 5, and securing a victory by the narrow margin of 4
up and 7 to play."

7. Given that the regulation charge for a round is a shilling, would you
consider yourself justified in attempting to exact an extra half-crown
for club-cleaning from a player in spectacles, with a handicap of 27 and
a wistful expression? (Candidates are advised to say "No" to this
question.)

  *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

STIMIED.--_Golfer._ "Fore!"

    _Tinker._ "What?"

    _Golfer._ "Get out of the way!"

    _Tinker._ "What for?"

    _Golfer._ "I might hit you."

    _Tinker._ "Thee'd best _not_, young man!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Licensed Caddy._ "Carry your clubs, sir?"

_Jones_ (_who has chartered a small boy at a cheap rate_).
"No, I've got a caddy."

_Licensed Caddy._ "Carry your caddy, sir?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

"AS SHE IS SPOKE."--(_In the train from Nice._) _Enthusiastic Golfer_
(_to friend, as train stops at Golfe-Juan_): "Oh, here we are! This
must be the place. '_Golfe_,' golf. '_Juan_,' _jeu_, play, you know.
Yes, this is evidently the station for the links!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE NATURAL CREST OF EVERY GOLF CLUB.--The lynx.

       *       *       *       *       *

FIVE-O'CLOCK "TEES."--Suburban golf.

[Illustration: Punch]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

THE RULING PASSION.--_Laden and perspiring stranger._ "Could you kindly
tell me how far it is to the station?"

_Sportsome Native._ "About a full drive, two brassies and a putt."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GOLF WIDOWS

(_After E.B. Browning_)


    Do you hear the widows weeping, O my brothers,
        Wedded but a few brief years?
    They are writing home complaining to their mothers,
        And their ink's suffused with tears.
    The young lads are playing in the meadows,
        The young babes are sleeping in the nest;
    The young men are flirting in the shadows,
        The young maids are helping them, with zest.
    But the young golf widows, O my brothers,
        Are weeping bitterly,
    They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
        While you're swiping from the tee.

    Do you ask their grazing widows in their sorrow
        Why their tears are falling so?
    "Oh--yesterday--to-day again--to-morrow--
        To the links you ALWAYS go!
    Your golf 'shop,'" they say, "is very dreary,
        You speak of nothing else from week to week;
    A really patient wife will grow a-weary
        Of talk about a concentrated cleek."
    Yes, the young golf widows, O my brothers,
        Do you ask them why they weep?
    They are longing to be back beside their mothers,
        While you're playing in a sweep.

    And well may the widows weep before you
        When your nightly round is done;
    They care nothing for a stymie, or the glory
        Gained by holing out in one.
    "How long," they say, "how long in careless fashion
        Will you stand, to drive the Dyke, upon our hearts,
    Trample down with nailèd heel our early passion,
        Turning homeward only when the light departs?
    You can hear our lamentations many a mile hence,
        Can you hearken without shame,
    When our mourning curseth deeper in the silence
        Than a strong man off his game?"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

"---- HE WOULD HAVE SAID"

_A beautiful stroke missed! A favourite club broken! No words to bring
relief!_

_American Friend (in the background, after a long pause)._ "Wa'al,
Brown, I guess that's the most profane silence I've ever listened to!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "A BEAUTIFUL DRIVE."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

SUBTLE.--"Aren't you a little off your game this morning, Mr. Smythe?"
"Oh, I'm not playing this morning, Miss Bertha. Only just amusing
myself."]

       *       *       *       *       *

SHOULD MARRIED MEN BE ALLOWED TO PLAY GOLF?

(_Extract from a Golfer's Diary_)


_July 21._--Played Robinson, who would never win a match if it wasn't
for his wife. Think that I shall start a links for bachelors only.
(Mem.--Suggest to the committee that no married man is allowed to play
golf in the mornings or afternoons.)

Hole I. I played perfectly, holing beautiful long putt. Robinson
hopeless. One up.

Hole II. R. bunkered. Entirely his own fault. Two up.

Hole III. Holed my approach, allowing for both wind and slope of green;
really a grand shot. Caught sight of Mrs. R. as I walked to the next
tee. Three up.

Hole IV. Thought that I might have to speak to Mrs. R. at any minute.
Missed my drive in consequence. Disgusting! Two up.

Hole V. R. seemed to be looking for his wife instead of attending to
what I was saying. My drive lay on a buttercup, and who the deuce can
be expected to play off buttercups? One up.

Hole VI. Stymied R. quite perfectly. He pretended to think that we were
not playing stymies. We were. Two up.

Hole VII. Saw Mrs. R. looking aimlessly out to sea. These loafing ladies
are enough to put any man off his game. Why can't they do something? One
up.

Hole VIII. R. may say what he likes, but he waved to his wife. I was
also annoyed by his stockings, which I should think Mrs. R. knitted. The
sort of useless thing she would do. All square.

Hole IX. Got well away from Mrs. R., and though my caddy coughed as I
was approaching I laid my ball dead. Beautiful shot. One up at the turn.

Hole X. Had the hole in my pocket when R. laid his approach dead.
Ridiculous luck. All square.

Hole XI. Just as I was driving I saw Mrs. R. still looking at the sea. I
complained, but R. took no notice. At any rate she cost me the hole. One
down.

Hole XII. Vardon couldn't have played better than I did, and even R. had
to say "Good shot!" twice. All square.

Hole XIII. As I was putting I had a feeling in my back that Mrs. R. had
arrived at last. Missed my putt and only halved the hole.

Hole XIV. Couldn't see Mrs. R. anywhere. Wondered where on earth she had
got to, or whether she was drowned. Of course I lost the hole. One
down.

Hole XV. A little dispute, as R. claimed that his ball--which was under
a wheelbarrow--was on ground under repair. Absolutely foolish, and I
told him so. All square.

Hole XVI. Made a perfect drive, approach and putt. Looked everywhere for
Mrs. R. and couldn't see her. One up.

Hole XVII. Completely put off by wondering when I should see Mrs. R.
Most unfair. Told my caddy I should report him to the committee. All
square.

Hole XVIII. Saw Mrs. R. on a hill half a mile away. Got on my nerves. R.
said, "Halloa, there's my wife! I thought she wasn't coming out this
morning." Lost the hole and the match, and told the secretary that R.'s
handicap ought to be reduced.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

"SHE WAS NOT A GOLFER"

_Husband._ "What on earth has happened to my driver?"

_Wife._ "Oh, I couldn't find the hammer, so I used that thing. It wasn't
much use, though."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

OUR VILLAGE

The Golf-Club in full swing.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_She._ "Why, Mr. Smith, you don't mean to say you have taken up golf?"

_Smith (age 78)._ "Yes. I found I was getting a bit too old for lawn
tennis!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

ERRATIC

_Pedestrian (anxious for his safety)._ "Now, which way are you going to
hit the ball?"

_Worried Beginner._ "Only wish to goodness I knew myself!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Punch]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

SWEET SIMPLICITY

_Diffident Man (who does not know to how much of an ingénue he is
talking)._ "Have you been out long, Miss Grace?"

_Miss Grace (consulting her wrist-strap)._ "Oh, about three-quarters of
an hour. You see we were asked to come punctually."]

       *       *       *       *       *

LINES ON THE LINKS

    Hard by the biggest hazard on the course,
    Beneath the shelter of a clump of gorse,
    Secure from shots from off the heel or toe,
    I watch the golfers as they come and go.

    I see the fat financier, whose "dunch"
    Suggests too copious draughts of "fizz" at lunch;
    While the lean usher, primed with ginger beer,
    Surmounts the yawning bunker and lies clear.

    I see a member of the House of Peers
    Within an ace of bursting into tears,
    When, after six stout niblick shots, his ball
    Lies worse than if he had not struck at all.

    But some in silent agony endure
    Misfortunes no "recovery" can cure,
    While others, even men who stand at plus,
    Loudly ejaculate the frequent cuss.

    An aged Anglo-Indian oft I see
    Who waggles endlessly upon the tee,
    Causing impatience of the fiercest kind
    To speedy couples pressing from behind.

    Familiar also is the red-haired Pat
    Who plays in rain or shine without a hat,
    And who, whenever things are out of joint,
    "Sockets" his iron shots to cover point.

    Before ten thirty, also after five,
    The links with lady players are alive,
    At other seasons, by the rules in force,
    Restricted to their own inferior course.

    One matron, patient in her way as Job,
    I've seen who nine times running missed the globe;
    But then her daughter, limber maid, can smite
    Close on two hundred yards the bounding Kite.

               *       *       *

    Dusk falls upon the bracken, bents and whins;
    The careful green-keeper removes the pins,
    To-morrow being Sunday, and the sward
    Is freed from gutty and from rubber-cored.

    Homeward unchecked by cries of "Fore!" I stroll,
    Revolving many problems in my soul,
    And marvelling at the mania which bids
    Sexagenarians caracole like kids;

    Which causes grave and reverend signiors
    To talk for hours of nothing but their scores,
    And worse, when baffled by a little ball,
    On the infernal deities to call;

    Which brightens overworked officials' lives;
    Which bores to tears their much-enduring wives;
    Which fosters the consumption of white port,
    And many other drinks, both long and short.

    Who then, in face of functions so diverse,
    Will call thee, golf, a blessing or a curse?
    Or choose between the Premier's predilection
    And Rosebery's deliberate rejection?

    Not mine to judge: I merely watch and note
    Thy votaries as they grieve or as they gloat,
    Uncertain whether envy or amaze
    Or pity most is prompted by the craze.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Foreigner (who has "pulled" badly, and hit his partner in a tender
spot),_ "Mille pardons, monsieur! My clob--he deceived me!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Tommy._ "I say, do you know who's winning?"

_Ethel._ "I think uncle must be--I heard him offer to carry auntie's
clubs."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HOLE CONCERN


     SCENE--_Any golf-club where an alteration of the course is in
     prospect._ TIME--_Any time, from dawn to dusk._ CHARACTERS--_Any
     number of_ Members, _plus (on this occasion) an_ Inoffensive
     Stranger.

_First Member._ (_catching sight of_ Inoffensive Stranger). Look here,
Nobbs, you're an impartial judge, we'll have your opinion. What I say is
this. If you take the present 4th hole and make it the 13th, putting the
tee back ten yards behind the 12th, and carry the lower green fifteen
yards to the right, and play the 2nd, 5th and 16th holes in reverse
order, keeping clear of the ditch outside the 4th green, you'll
bring----

_Second Member._ Oh, that's rubbish. Anybody with a grain of sense would
see that you'd utterly ruin the course that way. My plan is to take the
first three, the 11th, and the 14th--you understand, Nobbs?--(_slowly
and emphatically_) the first three, the 11th, and the 14th.

_Inoffensive Stranger._ Yes?

_Second M._ (_quickly_). And leave 'em as they are. Leave 'em just
exactly as they are. Then you do away with the next, make the 3rd into
the 7th, and----

_I.S._ (_horribly confused_). But----

_Third M._ Yes, I know--you're thinking of the crossing from the 14th.
And you're perfectly right. Simply fatal, that would be; too dangerous
altogether. What we really want is a 2nd hole, and my plan would make a
splendid one--really sporting, and giving these gentlemen who fancy
their play a bit to do.

_Second M._ Don't know about _that_. Tried that patent 2nd hole of yours
this morning out of curiosity. Holed it with my third, and might have
done it in two, with a bit of luck.

_Third M._ (_whistles expressively_). Oh, _come_! Splendid player you
are, and all that--handicap's fifteen, isn't it?--but there aren't
_many_ of us who would stand here and say calmly that we'd done a hole
of 420 yards in three! _Really_, you know----

_Second M._ 420 yards? 130, you mean.

_Third M._ (_defiantly_). 420, if an inch.

_Second M._ But look here, you told me yourself only yesterday----

_Third M._ (_slightly taken aback_). Oh, ah, yes. I understand now. I
_did_ think, at one time, of making the 2nd a short hole. But this is
quite a different idea. Miles better, in fact. It flashed across me
quite suddenly at dinner-time last night. Sort of inspiration--kind of
thing you can't account for--but there it _is_, you see.

_Fourth M._ Well, what you fellows can argue about like this beats me
altogether. There's only one _possible_ way of improving the course, and
I showed you the plan of it last week. It won't be adopted--not likely.
So good, and simple, and inexpensive that the committee won't look at
it. Couldn't expect anything else. Anyhow (_with an air of unappreciated
heroism_)--I've done _my_ best for the club!

(_Sighs heavily, and picks up a newspaper._)

_Fifth M._ (_brutally_). Oh, _we_ know all about that blessed plan of
yours. Now, I'm open to conviction. Mind you, I don't condemn anybody
else's scheme. All that _I_ say is, that if a man doesn't see that my
plan is the best, he's a dunder-headed jackass, and that's all about it.
What do _you_ think, Mr. Nobbs?

_I.S._ (_rather nervously_). Well, really--I hardly know--perhaps----

_First M._ (_compassionately_). Ah, it's those whins below the 17th that
are bothering _you_. But if you exchange the 8th and the 10th----

_Second M._ (_abruptly_). Rot!

(_The battle continues. The_ Inoffensive Stranger _stealthily
withdraws._ (_Curtain._))

[Illustration: Punch]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A TOWN MOUSE

_Jones._ "Well, my little man, what are _you_ thinking about?"

_London Boy_ (_who has never been out of Whitechapel before_). "I'm
thinkin' it's time yer mother put yer into _trousers_!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A MARTYR TO APPEARANCES

_Young Lady._ "I say, caddie, what _does_ Mr. McFadjock do with all
these clubs?"

_Caddie (wofully preparing to follow his tyrant)._ "He makes me carry
them!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

LINK(S)ED SWEETNESS

_The Real Caddie_ (_audibly_). "This club is going to ruin--allowing all
these ladies to join!"

_Miss Sharp._ "They evidently can't get gentlemen!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Sanguine Golfer._ "Is that on the 'carpet,' caddie?"

_Caddie_ (_as the ball swerves into cottage window_). "Yus, sir; front
parlour, sir!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

THE OLD TYPE OF LINK MAN.

Supper time.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

THE NEW TYPE OF LINK MAN.

Tee time.]

       *       *       *       *       *

"A THREE-CARD LAY"


        Long ago in Sweet September,
        Oh! the day I well remember,
    I was playing on the Links against the winsomest of maids;
        In a "cup" my ball was lying,
        And the "divots" round were flying,
    And with eyes-a-dance she said to me, "Your iron's the King
    of Spades!"

        Now a foe, on such occasion,
        Of the feminine persuasion,
    Fair and twenty to the game a sort of subtlety imparts;
        And I felt its potent glamour,
        And I answered with a stammer
    Shy and nervous, "It was rash of me to play the Queen of Hearts!"

        Any further explanation
        Of my inward admiration
    Very likely had exposed me to the deadliest of snubs!
        But a snigger from behind me
        Just in time came to remind me
    Of the presence of my caddie--and I blessed the Knave of Clubs!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

GLORIOUS UNCERTAINTY

SCENE--_At the Golf Club._

_She._ "Good-bye, Major. What's the programme for to-morrow?"

_The Major._ "Oh, either skating or punting, according to the
weather."]

       *       *       *       *       *

GOLF AND GOOD FORM

(_By the Expert Wrinkler_)


Is it good form to golf? That is a question I have been so repeatedly
asked of late by correspondents that I can no longer postpone my answer.
Now to begin with, I fear there is no doubt that golf is a little on the
down grade--socially. Golf is no longer the monopoly of the best set,
and I am told that artisans' clubs have actually been started in certain
districts. The other day, as I was travelling in Lancashire, a man in
the same compartment--with the most shockingly ill-cut trousers I ever
saw--said to a friend, "I like 'Oylake, it's 'ealthy, and it's 'andy and
within 'ail of 'ome." And it turned out that the chief attraction to him
at Hoylake was the golf. Such an incident as this speaks volumes. But I
always try to see both sides of every question, and there is
unquestionably a great deal to be said in favour of golf. It was
undoubtedly played by kings in the past, and at the present moment is
patronised by grand dukes, dukes, peers and premiers.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

BETWEEN FRIENDS.--_Mr. Spooner, Q.C._ (_a Neophyte_). "This is my ball,
I think?" _Colonel Bunting_ (_an adept_). "By Jove, that's a jolly good
'lie'!" _Mr. Spooner._ "Really, Bunting, we're very old friends, of
course. But I do think you might find a pleasanter way of pointing out
a perfectly unintentional mistake!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

GOLF AND DRESS.

But the real and abiding attraction of golf is that it mercifully gives
more opportunities to the dressy man than any other pastime. Football
and cricket reduce everyone to a dead level in dress, but in golf there
is any amount of scope for individuality in costume. Take the case of
colour alone. The other day at Finsbury Park station I met a friend on
his way home from a day's golfing, and I noticed that he was sporting
the colours of no fewer than five different clubs. On his cap was the
badge of the Camberwell Crusaders; his tie proved his membership of the
Bickley Authentics; his blazer was that of the Tulse Hill Nondescripts;
his brass waistcoat buttons bore the monogram of the Gipsy Hill Zingari;
the roll of his knickerbocker stockings was embroidered with the crest
of the Kilburn Incogs. The effect of the whole was, if I may be allowed
the word, spicy in the extreme. Of course it is not everyone who can
carry off such a combination, or who can afford to belong to so many
first-class clubs. But my friend is a very handsome man, and has a
handicap of _plus_ two at Tooting Bec.

KNICKERBOCKERS OR TROUSERS.

The burning question which divides golfers into two hostile camps is the
choice between knickerbockers and trousers. Personally I favour the
latter, but it is only right to explain that ever since I was gaffed in
the leg by my friend Viscount ---- when out cub-sticking with the
Cottesmore I have never donned knickers again. To a man with a really
well-turned calf and neat ankles I should say, wear knickerbockers
whenever you get a chance. The late Lord Septimus Boulger, who had very
thick legs, and calves that seemed to begin just above the ankles, used
to wear knickerbockers because he said it put his opponent off his play.
If I may say so without offence, he was a real funny chap, though a
careless dresser, and I am told that his father, old Lord Spalding, has
never been the same man since his death.


STOCKINGS AND CALVES.

Another advantage of knickerbockers is the scope they afford for the
display of stylish stockings. A very good effect is produced by having a
little red tuft, which should appear under the roll which surmounts the
calf. The roll itself, which should always have a smart pattern, is very
useful in conveying the impression that the calf is more fully developed
than it really is. I noticed the other day at Hanger Hill that Sir
Arlington Ball was playing in a pair of very full knickers, almost of
the Dutch cut, and that his stockings--of a plain brown colour--had no
roll such as I have described. Then of course Sir Arlington has an
exceptionally well-modelled calf, and when in addition a man has £30,000
a year he may be allowed a certain latitude in his dress and his conduct
generally.

BOOTS AND SHOES.

The question of footwear at golf is one of considerable difficulty, but
there is a general feeling in favour of shoes. My friend the Tooting Bec
_plusser_ affects a very showy sort of shoe with a wide welt and a sort
of fringe of narrow strips of porpoise hide, which fall over the instep
in a miniature cataract. As regards the rival merits of india rubber
studs on the soles and of nails, I compromise by a judicious mixture of
both. If a waistcoat be worn it should be of the brightest possible
colour. I saw Lord Dunching the other day at Wimbledon Park in a
charming waistcoat. The groundwork was a rich spinach green with discs
of Pompeian red, and the buttons were of brass with his monogram in blue
and white enamel in the centre. As it was a cold day he wore a
mustard-coloured Harris tweed Norfolk jacket and a sealskin cap. Quite a
large crowd followed him, and I heard afterwards that he had raised the
record for the links to 193.

QUALIFICATIONS FOR A VALET.

One thing is certain--and that is we cannot all be first-class players.
Personally, owing to the accident I have already referred to, I hardly
ever play at all, but I always make it a point, if I am going on a visit
to any place in the country where I know there are no golf links, to
take a few niblicks with me. A bag for clubs only costs a few shillings,
and it looks well amongst your other paraphernalia on a journey. In
engaging a valet again, always remember to ascertain whether he knows
the rules of the "royal and ancient game." I shall never forget my
humiliation when down at Lord Springvale's. As I was taking part in a
foursome with the Hon. Agrippa Bramble, Lady Horace Hilton, and the
second Mrs. Bunkeray, I got stuck in a furze-bush and my man handed me a
putter. I could have cried with vexation.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

CAVENDISH, CHATSWORTH.--As to the treatment of divots, different methods
are recommended by different authorities. My plan, and I am not aware of
a better, is to put them in my pocket when the caddie is not looking.
When thoroughly dried they form an excellent peat for burning, or can be
used for bedding out rhododendrons.

"NIL DESPERANDUM," BECKENHAM.--The best stimulant during match play is a
beaten-up egg in a claret glass of sloe gin. The eggs are best carried
in the pocket of your club-bag.

A. FLUBB, WOKING.--No, it is not good form to pay your caddie in stamps.

ALCIBIADES, WEMBLEY PARK.--If you must play golf on Sunday, I call it
nothing short of hypocritical to go down to the links in a tall hat.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A HERO "FIN DE SIÈCLE."--_Podgers_ (_of Sandboys Golf Club_). "My dear
Miss Robinson, golf's the only game nowadays for the _men_. Lawn-tennis
is all very well for you _girls_, you know."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

If you should find a stray bull in possession of the links, and who is
fascinated by your little red landmarks, don't try and persuade poor Mr.
Littleman to drive him away. He is very plucky--but it isn't golf.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

HIS FIRST ROUND.--_Caddie_ (_pointing to direction flag_). "You'd better
play right on the flag, sir."

_Curate._ "Thank you very much. But I have very grave doubts as to my
ability to hit such a very small mark at this distance!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

EAR BLINKERS.--A suggestion for caddies of tender age in attendance on
hot-tempered Anglo-Indian military gentlemen learning golf.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

EVERY MAN TO HIS TRADE.--_Exasperated Amateur_ (_to fore-caddie, who
will_ NOT _go on ahead_). "Go along, man. _Do_ get on towards the
next green."

_Caddie._ "Beg parding, Capting. You won't never get him to go no more
than twenty yards ahead. 'E's been used to carrying a flag in front of
a steam-roller."]

       *       *       *       *       *

LAYS FROM THE LINKS

I.--THE HISTORY OF A MATCH.


    Let A be the Links where I went down to stay,
    And B the man whom I challenged to play:--

               *       *       *

    C was the Caddie no golfer's without,
    D was the Driver I used going "out":
    E was the Extra loud "Fore!" we both holloa-ed,
    F was the Foozle which commonly followed:
    G was the Green which I longed to approach,
    H was the Hazard which upset the coach:
    I was B's Iron-shot (he's good for a younker),
    J was his Joy when I pitched in the bunker.
    K was the Kodak, that mischief-contriver,
    L was B's Likeness--on smashing his driver:
    M was the Moment he found out 'twas taken.
    N was his Niblick around my head shaken:
    O was the Oil poured on waters so stormy,
    P was the Putt which, next hole, made me dormy.
    Q was the Quality--crowds came to look on:
    R the Result they were making their book on:
    S was the Stymie I managed to lay,
    T was Two more, which it forced him to play;
    U was the Usual bad work he let fly,
    V was the Vengeance he took in the bye.

               *       *       *

    W the Whisky that night: I must own
    X was its quantity--wholly unknown;
    Y were the Yarns which hot whisky combine with,
    Z was the Zest which we sang "_Auld Lang Syne_".

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Short-sighted Lady Golfer._ "Hi! have you seen a golf-ball fall
anywhere here, please?" [_Victim regards ball with remaining eye._]

]

       *       *       *       *       *

II.--A TOAST.


    Fill up your glasses! Bumpers round
        Of Scotland's mountain dew!
    With triple clink my toast you'll drink,
        The Links I pledge with you:
    The Links that bind a million hearts,
        There's magic in their name,
    The Links that lie 'neath every sky,
        And the Royal and Ancient Game!

    A health to all who "miss the globe,"
        The special "stars" who don't;
    May thousands thrive to tee and drive
        As Jehu's self was wont!
    No tee without a caddie--then
        The caddies will acclaim!
    A health, I say, to all who play
        The Royal and Ancient Game!

    Long life to all who face the foe,
        And on the green "lie dead"!--
    An envied lot, as all men wot,
        For gallant "lads in red":
    Where balls fly fast and iron-shots plough
        Win medals, trophies, fame;
    Your watchword "Fore!" One cheer--two more--
        For the Royal and Ancient Game!

    Then "_toe_ and _heel_ it" on the green
        (You'll make your partner swear),
    But I'll be bound your dance, a round,
        With luck will end all square
    Win, lose, or halve the match--what odds?
        We love our round the same;
    Though luck take wing, "the play's the thing,"
        The Royal and Ancient Game!

               *       *       *

    Then, Royal and Ancient Game, accept
        This tribute lay from me;
    From me then take, for old sake's sake,
        This toast--Long life to thee!
    A long, long life to thee, old friend--
        None worthier the name--
    With three times three, long life to thee,
        O Royal and Ancient Game!

[Illustration: Punch]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Very mild Gentleman_ (_who has failed to hit the ball five times in
succession_). "Well ----"

_Up-to-date Caddy_ (_producing gramophone charged with appropriate
expletives_). "Allow me, sir!"

    [_Mild Gentleman_ DOES _allow him, and moreover presents him with a
        shilling for handling the subject in such a masterly manner._]

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_First Golfer_ (_to Second Golfer, who is caught in a bunker_). "Well,
Jones told me this morning he did this hole yesterday in four."

_Second Golfer_ (_who stammers_). "If Jones s-s-said he did it in four,
he was a l-l-l-l----"

_First Golfer._ "Steady, friend, steady!"

_Second Golfer._ "----he was a l-lucky beggar!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

GOLF-LAND--HOLE BY HOLE

_Match for a suit of oil-skins between Sunny Jack and Dismal Jimmy._

     "The rain has beaten all records."--_Daily Papers._

     "Play the game."--_Modern motto._


_Hole 1._--Halved in 28. D.J. gets into the current with his 16th (a
beauty) and is rescued by life-boat.

_Hole 2._--Abandoned. A green-finder with a divining-rod, which is
convertible into an umbrella, states that Primitive Baptists are using
the green for purposes of total immersion.

_Hole 3._--Abandoned. A regatta is found to be taking place in the big
bunker.

_Hole 4._--Halved in 23. S.J. discovered with life-belt round him which
he has stolen from the flag. Reported death of a green-keeper, lost in
trying to rescue two caddies from the bunker going to the 11th hole.

_Hole 5._--Abandoned out of sympathy with the green-keeper.

_Hole 6._--Abandoned. S.J. gets his driver mixed in his life-belt, with
the result that his braces burst. D.J. claims hole on the ground that no
player may look for a button for more than two minutes. Mr. Vardon,
umpiring from balloon, disallows claim. Both players take to canoes.

_Hole 7._--D.J.'s canoe upset by body of drowned sheep as he is holing
short put. Mr. Vardon decides that corpses are rubs on the green.

_Hole 8._--Abandoned, owing to a fight for life-belt.

_Hole 9._--Halved in 303, Mr. Vardon keeping the score.

_Hole 10._--D.J. saves S.J.'s life. Hole awarded to S.J. by Mr. Vardon
out of sympathy. S.J. one up.

_Hole 11._--S.J. saves D.J.'s life and receives the Humane Society's
monthly medal and the hole from Mr. Vardon as a reward of courage. S.J.
two up.

_Hole 12._--Abandoned. Collection made for the widows of drowned
golfers, which realises ninepence. S.J. subsequently returns from a
long, low dive.

_Holes 13 and 14._--Won by D.J. in the absence of S.J., who attends
funeral water-games in honour of the green-keeper. All square.

_Holes 15 and 16._--Abandoned by mutual consent, whisky being given away
by the Society of Free-drinkers. Instant reappearance of the
green-keeper.

_Holes 17 and 18._--Unrecorded. Mr. Vardon declares the match halved.

[Illustration: Punch]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: FORE and AFT]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Short-sighted Golfer_ (_having been signalled to come on by lady who
has lost her ball_). "Thanks _very_ much. And _would_ you mind driving
that sheep away?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Extract from the rules of a local golf club:_--"RULE V.--The committee
shall have the power at any time to fill any vacancy in their body."]

       *       *       *       *       *

A LESSON IN GOLF


"You won't dare!" said I.

"There is nothing else for it," said Amanda sternly. "You know perfectly
well that we must practise every minute of the time, if we expect to
have the least chance of winning. If she _will_ come just now--well!"
Amanda cocked her pretty chin in the air, and looked defiant.

"But--_Aunt Susannah!_" said I.

"It's quite time for you to go and meet her," said Amanda, cutting short
my remonstrances; and she rose with an air of finality.

My wife, within her limitations, is a very clever woman. She is prompt:
she is resolute: she has the utmost confidence in her own generalship.
Yet, looking at Aunt Susannah, as she sat--gaunt, upright, and
formidable--beside me in the dogcart, I did not believe even Amanda
capable of the stupendous task which she had undertaken. She would never
dare----

I misjudged her. Aunt Susannah had barely sat down--was, in fact, only
just embarking on her first scone--when Amanda rushed incontinently in
where I, for one, should have feared to tread.

"Dear Aunt Susannah," she said, beaming hospitably, "I'm sure you will
never guess how we mean to amuse you while you are here!"

"Nothing very formidable, I hope?" said Aunt Susannah grimly.

"You'll never, never guess!" said Amanda; and her manner was so
unnaturally sprightly that I knew she was inwardly quaking. "We want to
teach you--what do you think?"

"I think that I'm a trifle old to learn anything new, my dear," said
Aunt Susannah.

I should have been stricken dumb by such a snub. Not so, however, my
courageous wife.

"Well--golf!" she cried, with overdone cheerfulness.

Aunt Susannah started. Recovering herself, she eyed us with a stony
glare which froze me where I sat.

"There is really nothing else to do in these wilds, you know," Amanda
pursued gallantly, though even she was beginning to look frightened.
"And it is such a lovely game. You'll like it immensely."

"_What_ do you say it is called?" asked Aunt Susannah in awful tones.

"Golf," Amanda repeated meekly; and for the first time her voice
shook.

"Spell it!" commanded Aunt Susannah.

Amanda obeyed, with increasing meekness.

"Why do you call it 'goff' if there's an 'l' in it?" asked Aunt
Susannah.

"I--I'm afraid I don't know," said Amanda faintly.

Aunt Susannah sniffed disparagingly. She condescended, however, to
inquire into the nature of the game, and Amanda gave an elaborate
explanation in faltering accents. She glanced imploringly at me; but I
would not meet her eye.

"Then you just try to get a little ball into a little hole?" inquired my
relative.

"And in the fewest possible strokes," Amanda reminded her, gasping.

"And--is that all?" asked Aunt Susannah.

"Y--yes," said Amanda.

"Oh!" said Aunt Susannah.

A game described in cold blood sounds singularly insignificant. We both
fell into sudden silence and depression.

"Well, it doesn't sound _difficult_" said Aunt Susannah. "Oh, yes, I'll
come and play at ball with you if you like, my dears."

"_Dear_ Auntie!" said Amanda affectionately. She did not seem so much
overjoyed at her success, however, as might have been expected. As for
me, I saw a whole sea of breakers ahead; but then I had seen them all
the time.

We drove out to the Links next day. We were both very silent. Aunt
Susannah, however, was in good spirits, and deeply interested in our
clubs.

"What in the world do you want so many sticks for, child?" she inquired
of Amanda.

"Oh, they are for--for different sorts of ground," Amanda explained
feebly; and she cast an agonised glance at our driver, who had obviously
overheard, and was chuckling in an offensive manner.

We both looked hastily and furtively round us when we arrived. We were
early, however, and fortune was kind to us; there was no one else there.

"Perhaps you would like to watch us a little first, just to see how the
game goes?" Amanda suggested sweetly.

"Not at all!" was Aunt Susannah's brisk rejoinder. I've come here to
play, not to look on. Which stick----?"

"_Club_--they are called clubs," said Amanda.

"Why?" inquired Aunt Susannah.

"I--I don't know," faltered Amanda. "Do you Laurence?"

I did not know, and said so.

"Then I shall certainly call them sticks," said Aunt Susannah
decisively. "They are not in the least like clubs."

"Shall I drive off?" I inquired desperately of Amanda.

"Drive off? Where to? Why are you going away?" asked Aunt Susannah.
"Besides, you can't go--the carriage is out of sight."

"The way you begin is called driving off," I explained laboriously.
"Like this." I drove nervously, because I felt her eye upon me. The ball
went some dozen yards.

"That seems easy enough," said Aunt Susannah. "Give me a stick, child."

"Not that end--the _other_ end!" cried Amanda, as our relative prepared
to make her stroke with the butt-end.

"Dear me! Isn't that the handle?" she remarked cheerfully; and she
reversed her club, swung it, and chopped a large piece out of the links.
"Where is it gone? Where is it gone?" she exclaimed, looking wildly
round.

"It--it isn't gone," said Amanda nervously, and pointed to the ball
still lying at her feet.

"What an extraordinary thing!" cried Aunt Susannah; and she made another
attempt, with a precisely similar result. "Give me another stick!" she
demanded. "Here, let me choose for myself--this one doesn't suit me.
I'll have that flat thing."

"But that's a putter," Amanda explained agonisedly.

"What's a putter? You said just now that they were all clubs," said Aunt
Susannah, pausing.

"They are all clubs," I explained patiently. "But each has a different
name."

"You don't mean to say you give them names like a little girl with her
dolls?" cried Aunt Susannah. "Why, what a babyish game it is!" She
laughed very heartily. "At any rate," she continued, with that
determination which some of her friends call by another name, "I am sure
that this will be easier to play with!" She grasped the putter, and in
some miraculous way drove the ball to a considerable distance.

"Oh, splendid!" cried Amanda. Her troubled brow cleared a little, and
she followed suit, with mediocre success. Aunt Susannah pointed out that
her ball had gone farther than either of ours, and grasped her putter
tenaciously.

"It's a better game than I expected from your description," she
conceded. "Oh, I daresay I shall get to like it. I must come and
practise every day." We glanced at each other in a silent horror of
despair, and Aunt Susannah after a few quite decent strokes,
triumphantly holed out. "What next?" said she.

I hastily arranged her ball on the second tee: but the luck of golf is
proverbially capricious. She swung her club, and hit nothing. She swung
it again, and hit the ground.

"_Why_ can't I do it?" she demanded, turning fiercely upon me.

"You keep losing your feet," I explained deferentially.

"Spare me your detestable slang terms, Laurence, at least!" she cried,
turning on me again like a whirlwind. "If you think I have lost my
temper--which is absurd!--you might have the courage to say so in plain
English!"

"Oh, no, Aunt Susannah!" I said. "You don't understand----"

"Or want to," she snapped. "Of all silly games----"

"I mean you misunderstood me," I pursued, trembling. "Your foot slipped,
and that spoilt your stroke. You should have nails in your boots, as we
have."

"Oh!" said Aunt Susannah, only half pacified. But she succeeded in
dislodging her ball at last, and driving it into a bunker. At the same
moment, Amanda suddenly clutched me by the arm. "Oh, Laurence!" she said
in a bloodcurdling whisper. "_What_ shall we do? Here is Colonel
Bartlemy!"

The worst had happened. The hottest-tempered man in the club, the oldest
member, the best player, the greatest stickler for etiquette, was hard
upon our track; and Aunt Susannah, with a red and determined
countenance, was urging her ball up the bunker, and watching it roll
back again.

"Dear Auntie," said Amanda, in her sweetest voice, "you had much better
take it out."

"Is that allowed?" inquired our relative suspiciously.

"Oh, you may always do that and lose a stroke!" I assured her eagerly.

"I shan't dream of losing a stroke!" said Aunt Susannah, with decision.
"I'll get it out of this ditch by fair means, if I have to spend all day
over it!"

"Then do you mind waiting one moment?" I said, with the calmness of
despair. "There is a player behind us----"

"Let him stay behind us! I was here first," said Aunt Susannah; and she
returned to her bunker.

The Links rose up in a hillock immediately behind us, so that our
successor could not see us until he had reached the first hole. I stood
with my eye glued to the spot where he might be expected to appear. I
saw, as in a nightmare, the scathing remarks that would find their way
into the Suggestion Book. I longed for a sudden and easy death.

At the moment when Colonel Bartlemy's rubicund face appeared over the
horizon, Aunt Susannah, flushed but unconquered, drew herself up for a
moment's rest from toil. He had seen her. Amanda shut her eyes. For
myself, I would have run away shamelessly, if there had been any place
to run to. The Colonel and Aunt Susannah looked hard at each other. Then
he began to hurry down the slope, while she started briskly up it.

"Miss Cadwalader!" said the Colonel.

"Colonel Bartlemy!" cried Aunt Susannah; and they met with effusion.

I saw Amanda's eyes open, and grow round with amazed interest. I knew
perfectly well that she had scented a bygone love affair, and was
already planning the most suitable wedding-garb for Aunt Susannah. A
frantic hope came to me that in that case the Colonel's affection might
prove stronger than his zeal for golf. They were strolling down to us in
a leisurely manner, and the subject of their conversation broke upon my
astonished ears.

"I'm afraid you don't think much of these Links, after yours," Colonel
Bartlemy was saying anxiously. "They are rather new----"

"Oh, I've played on many worse," said Aunt Susannah, looking round her
with a critical eye. "Let me see--I haven't seen you since your victory
at Craigmory. Congratulations!"

"Approbation from Sir Hubert Stanley!" purred the Colonel, evidently
much gratified. "You will be here for the twenty-seventh, I hope?"

"Exactly what I came for," said Aunt Susannah calmly.

"Though I don't know what our ladies will say to playing against the
Cranford Champion!" chuckled the Colonel; and then they condescended to
become aware of our existence. We had never known before how exceedingly
small it is possible to feel.

"Aunt Susannah, what am I to say? What fools you must think us!" I
murmured miserably to her, when the Colonel was out of earshot looking
for his ball. "We are such raw players ourselves--and of course we never
dreamt----"

Aunt Susannah twinkled at me in a friendly manner. "There's an ancient
proverb about eggs and grandmothers," she remarked cheerfully.

"There should be a modern form for golf-balls and aunts--hey, Laurence?"

Amanda did not win the prize brooch; but Aunt Susannah did, in spite of
an overwhelming handicap, and gave it to her. She does not often wear
it--possibly because rubies are not becoming to her: possibly because
its associations are too painful.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

THE RETORT COURTEOUS.--(_The Major-General waiting to drive, to girl
carrying baby, who blocks the way_). "Now then, hurry on please with
that baby." _Girl._ "Garn! Baby yerself, playing at ball there in
your knickerbockers an' all!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A GOLF TOURNAMENT IN YE TIME OF YE ROMANS

_From a rare old frieze (not) in ye British Museum._]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

"Anyway, it's better to break one's ---- clubs than to lose one's ----
---- temper!!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A PLACE FOR EVERYTHING.--_Obstructive Lady (in reply to the golfer's
warning call)._ "The whole world wasn't made for golf, sir."

_Youngster._ "No; but the links _wis_. 'Fore!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

Unenviable position of Mr. Pottles, whose record drive has just landed
fairly in the ribs of irascible old Colonel Curry, out for his
constitutional canter.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Aunt Jabisca (pointing to earnest golfer endeavouring to play out of
quarry)._ "Dear me, Maud, what a respectably dressed man that is
breaking stones!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

Suggestion for a rainy day. Spillikins on a grand scale.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: GOLF À LA WATTEAU--AND OTHERWISE]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Major Brummel (comparing the length of his and his opponent's
"drives")._ "I think I'm shorter than Mr. Simkins?"

_Small Caddie (a new hand, greatly flattered at being asked, as he
thinks, to judge of their personal appearance)._ "Yes, sir, and fatterer
too, sir!"

[_Delight of the gallant Major._]

]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ARRY AT GOLF.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Miss Dora (to Major Putter, who is playing an important match, and has
just lost his ball)._ "Oh, Major, do come and take your horrid ball
away from my little dog. He won't let me touch it, and I know he must
be ruining his teeth!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LOST GOLFER


[The sharp decline of ping-pong, whose attractions at its zenith seduced
many golfers from the nobler sport, has left a marked void in the
breasts of these renegades. Some of them from a natural sense of shame
hesitate to return to their first love. The conclusion of the following
lines should be an encouragement to this class of prodigal.]

    Just for a celluloid pillule he left us,
        Just for an imbecile batlet and ball,
    These were the toys by which Fortune bereft us
        Of Jennings, our captain, the pride of us all.
    Shopmen with clubs to sell handed him rackets,
        Rackets of sand-paper, rubber and felt,
    Said to secure an unplayable service,
        Pestilent screws and the death-dealing welt.
    Oft had we played with him, partnered him, sworn by him,
        Copied his pitches in height and in cut,
    Hung on his words as he delved in a bunker,
        Made him our pattern to drive and to putt.
    Benedick's with us, the major is of us,
        Swiper the county bat's still going strong;
    He alone broke from the links and the clubhouse,
        He alone sank in the slough of ping-pong.

    We have "come on"--but not his the example;
        Sloe-gin has quickened us--not his the cash;
    Holes done in 6 where a 4 would be ample
        Vexed him not, busy perfecting a smash.
    Rased was his name as a decadent angel,
        One more mind unhinged by a piffulent game,
    One more parlour-hero, the worshipped of school-girls
        Who once had a princely "plus 5" to his name.
    Jennings is gone; yet perhaps he'll come back to us,
        Healed of his hideous lesion of brain,
    Back to the links in the daytime; at twilight
        Back to his cosy club corner again.
    Back for the medal day, back for our foursomes,
        Back from the tables' diminishing throng,
    Back from the infantile, ceaseless half-volley,
        Back from the lunatic lure of ping-pong.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Tennis Player (from London)._ "Don't see the fun o' this
game--knockin' a ball into a bush, and then 'untin' about for it!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE AMERICAN HUSBAND]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE ENGLISH WIFE]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A TOO-FEEBLE EXPLETIVE

_MacSymon._ "I saw you were carrying for the professor yesterday, Sandy.
How does he play?"

_Sandy._ "Eh, yon man'll never be a gowffer. Div ye ken what he says
when he foozles a ba'?"

_MacSymon._ "No. What does he say?"

_Sandy._ "'_Tut-tut!_'"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LINKS


    'Tis a brilliant autumn day,
    And the breeze has blown away
    All the clouds that lowered gray;
                So methinks,
    As I've half an hour to spare,
    I will go and take the air,
    While the weather still is fair,
                On the Links.

    I admire the splendid view,
    The delicious azure hue
    Of the ocean and--when, _whew_!
                With a crack,
    Lo! there drops a little ball
    Which elects to break its fall
    By alighting on the small
                Of my back.

    In the distance someone cries
    Some remark about my eyes,
    None too pleasant, I surmise,
                From the tone;
    So away my steps I turn
    Till a figure I discern,
    Who is mouching by the burn
                All alone.

    He has lost a new "Eclipse,"
    And a little word that slips
    From his sulky-looking lips
                Tells me true
    That, besides the missing ball,
    Which is gone beyond recall,
    He has lost--what's worst of all--
                Temper, too.

    I conclude it will be best
    If I leave him unaddressed,
    Such a melancholy quest
                To pursue;
    And I pass to where I spy
    Clouds of sand uprising high
    Till they all but hide the sky
                From the view.

    They proceed, I understand,
    From a bunker full of sand,
    Where a golfer, club in hand,
                Freely swears
    As he hacks with all his might,
    Till his countenance is quite
    As vermilion as the bright
                Coat he wears.

    I observe him for a while
    With a highly-tickled smile,
    For it is the queerest style
                Ever seen:
    He is very short and stout,
    And he knocks the ball about,
    But he never gets it out
            On the green.

    Still I watch him chop and hack,
    Till I hear a sudden crack,
    And the club-head makes a track
                In the light--
    There's a startled cry of "FORE!"
    As it flies, and all is o'er!--
    I remember nothing more
                Till to-night,

    When I find myself in bed
    With a lump upon my head
    Like a penny loaf of bread;
                And methinks,
    For the future I'll take care
    When I want a little air,
    That I won't go anywhere
                Near the Links.


[Illustration: Punch]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

THE MISERIES OF A _VERY_ AMATEUR GOLFER

He is very shy, and unfortunately has to drive off in front of the lady
champion and a large gallery. He makes a tremendous effort. The ball
travels at least five yards!]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Golfer._ "And what's your name?"

_Caddie._ "They ca' me 'breeks, but ma maiden name is Christy."]

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: "Mummy, what's that man for?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

DISTINCTION WITHOUT DIFFERENCE.--_Sensitive Golfer (who has foozled)._
"Did you laugh at me, boy?"

_Caddie._ "No, sir; I wis laughin' at anither man."

_Sensitive Golfer._ "And what's funny about him?"

_Caddie._ "He plays gowf awfu' like you, sir!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

Jones cannot see his ball anywhere, although he is positive it fell
about there somewhere.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Caddie]

NEVER HAVE A CADDIE WITH A SQUINT!

(_A Lay of the Links_)


    They told me he was skilful, and assiduous, and true,
        They told me he had "carried" for the bravest and the best.
    His hair was soldier-scarlet, and his eyes were saucer blue,
        And one seemed looking eastward, whilst the other
        fronted west.
    His strabismus was a startler, and it shook my nerve at once;
        It affected me with dizziness, like gazing from a height.
    I straddled like a duffer, and I wavered like a dunce,
        And my right hand felt a left one, and my left felt far
        from right.
    As I watched him place my ball with his visual axes crossed,
        The very sunshine glimmered, with a queer confusing glint,
    I felt like a sick lubber on Atlantic surges tossed--
        Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!

    I'm an "irritable duffer"--so my enemies declare,--
        That is I'm very sensitive, and play a modest game.
    A very little puts me off my stroke, and, standing there,
        With his boot-heels at right angles, and his optics much
        the same,
    He maddened me--no less, and I felt that all success
        Against bumptious young McBungo--was impossible that day.
    I'd have parted with a fiver to have beaten him. His dress
        Was so very very swagger, and his scarlet cap so gay.
    He eyed my cross-eyed caddie with a supercilious smirk,
        I tried to set my features, and my nerves, like any flint;
    But my "knicker'd" knees were knocking as I wildly set to work.
        Oh! _never_ have a caddie with a squint!

[Illustration: Golfer]

    I tried to look away from the spoiler of my play,
        But for fiendish fascination he was like a squinting snake;
    All the muffings man can muff I contrived to muff that day;
        My eyes were all askew and my nerves were all ashake.
    I seemed to squint myself, and not only with my eyes,
        My knees, my hands, my elbows, with obliquity were rife.
    McBungo's sleek sham sympathy and sinister surprise
        Made almost insupportable the burden of my life.
    He _was_ so beastly friendly, and he _was_ so blazing fair,
        So fulsomely effusive with suggestion, tip, and hint!
    And all the while that caddie stood serenely cock-eyed there.
        Oh! _never_ have a caddie with a squint!

    Miss Binks was looking on! On that maiden I was gone,
        Just as she was gone on golf, in perfervid Scottish style.
    On my merits with McBungo I should just about have won,
        But my shots to-day were such as made even Effie smile;
    Oh, the lumps of turf I lifted! Oh, the easy balls I missed!
        Oh, the bunkers I got bogged in! And at last a gentle scorn
    Curled the lips I would have given my pet "Putter" to have kissed.
        Such a bungler as myself her loved links had never borne;
    And all the while McBungo--the young crocodile!--bewailed
        What he called my "beastly luck," though his joy was plain as
        print,
    Whilst that squint grew worse and worse at each shot of mine
    which failed.
        Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!

[Illustration: Lady Golfer]

    In "playing through the green" with my "brassie" I was seen
        At most dismal disadvantage on that miserable day;
    _He_ pointed through the rushes with cock-eyed, sardonic spleen,--
        I followed his squint guidance, and I struck a yard away;
    But, oh! 'twas worst of all, when I tried to hole the ball.
        Oh, the ogre! _How_ he squinted at that crisis of the game!
    His hideous strabismus held me helpless, a blind thrall
        Shattered my nerves completely, put my skill to open shame.
    That squint would, I am sure, have upset the solar system--
        Oho! the impish impudence, the gruesome goggle-glint!
    The low, malicious chuckle, as he softly muttered, "Missed 'im!"
        No, _never_ have a caddie with a squint!

    Yet all the same McBungo did _not_ get that rich Miss Binks,
        Who was so sweet in every way, especially on golf.
    He fancied he had cut me out that day upon those links,
        But although he won the game--at golf, his love-game came
        not off.
    He and that demon caddie tried between them very hard
        To shame me in the eyes of that dear enthusiast,
    But--well, my clubs she carries, whilst McBungo, evil-starred,
        Was caught by a Scotch vixen with an obvious optic cast!
    _That's_ Nemesis, I say! And she will not let him play
        At the game he so adores. True she's wealthy as the Mint.
    At golf, with Effie, I have passed many a happy day,
        But--we never have a caddie with a squint!

    A caddie who's a duffer, or a caddie who gets drunk;
        A caddie who regards all other caddies as his foes;
    A caddie who will snigger when you fumble, fail or funk;
        A caddie who will whistle, or seems ever on the doze;
    A caddie who's too tiny, or too big and broad of bulk;
        A caddie who gets playing with your clubs upon the sly;
    A caddie who will chatter, or a caddie who will sulk;
        All these are calculated a golf devotee to try;
    All these are most vexatious to a golfer of repute;
        And still more so to a novice. But just take a friendly hint!
    Take a caddie who's a duffer, or a drunkard, or a brute,
        _But never try a caddie with a squint!!!_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

ANOTHER LENTEN SACRIFICE.--_Golf Caddie (to Curate)._ "High tee, sir?"

_Curate._ "No; put it on the ground. I give up sand during Lent."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Voice from the Hill._ "Now then, you young coward, don't stand about
all day. Why don't you _take it away_ from the dog?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

_Boy (to young lady, who has been unfortunate enough to upset Colonel
Bunker)._ "You'd better ride on before 'e gets 'is breath, miss!"

_Young Lady._ "Why?" _Boy._ "_I've 'eard 'im play golf!!!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A GROWL FROM GOLFLAND


    Bores there are of various species, of the platform, of the quill,
    Bores obsessed by Christian Science or the Education Bill,
    But the most exasperating and intolerable bore
    Is the man who talks of nothing but the latest "rubber core."

    Place him in the Great Sahara, plant him on an Arctic floe,
    Or a desert island, fifteen thousand miles from Westward Ho!
    Pick him up a twelvemonth later, and I'll wager that you find
    Rubber filling _versus_ gutty still and solely on his mind.

    O American invaders, I accept your beef, your boots,
    Your historical romances, and your Californian fruits;
    But in tones of humble protest I am tempted to exclaim,
    "Can't you draw the line at commerce, can't you spare one
    British game?"

    I am but a simple duffer; I am quite prepared to state
    That my lowest round on record was a paltry 88;
    That my partner in a foursome needs the patience of a Job,
    That in moments of excitement I am apt to miss the globe.

    With my brassy and my putter I am very far to seek,
    Generally slice to cover with my iron and my cleek;
    But I boast a single virtue: I can honestly maintain
    I've escaped the fatal fever known as Haskell on the brain.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration:

A golf case was recently before the Court of Appeal. Why not a Golf
Court on the links?]

       *       *       *       *       *

GOLF VICTOR!


    Sir Golf and Sir Tennis are fighting like mad--
        Now Sir Tennis is blown, and Sir Golf's right above him,
    And his face has a look that is weary and sad,
        As he hastily turns to the ladies who love him,
    But the racket falls from him, he totters, and swirls,
        As he hears them cry, "Golf is the game for the girls!"

               *       *       *

    The girls crave for freedom, they cannot endure
        To be cramped up at tennis in courts that are poky
    And they are all of them certainly, perfectly sure
        That they'll never again touch "that horrible croquet,"
    Where it's quite on the cards that they may play with papa,
    And where all that goes on is surveyed by mamma,

    To golf on the downs for the whole of the day
        Is "so awfully jolly," they keep on asserting,
    With a good-looking fellow to teach you the way,
        And to fill up the time with some innocent flirting,
    And it may be the maiden is woo'd and is won,
        Ere the whole of the round is completed and done.

    Henceforward, then, golf is the game for the fair--
        At home, and abroad, or in pastures colonial,
    And the shouts of the ladies will quite fill the air
        For the links that will turn into bonds matrimonial,
    And for husbands our daughters in future will seek
        With the powerful aid of the putter and cleek!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Finis]

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.





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