The sowing of seed upon a course may seem a dull business, and the
average golfer leaves the consideration of all such matters to those
whose duty it is to attend to them, and contents himself with his play
on the resulting turf; but in this indifference he misses much that is
interesting, and occasionally some most pleasant humours, as witness the
true story of what happened on a suburban links. A very thorough club
manager had bought many bags of two different kinds of seed, which were
to be used by an intelligent workman for the benefit of the course,
according to a scheme already devised and discussed. One kind of seed
was that which would produce long, thick grass of a very coarse
character, and which would grow with big and almost indestructible roots
under the very worst of circumstances. It was intended that this should
be sown under the many trees that abounded on the course. It was not
only to be grass that would thrive under the most disadvantageous
circumstances, but it was meant also to be “rough,” which might some day
do something to stimulate the power of language among those golfers who
just now might play from underneath the branches of those trees with
their putters. The other seed was that which would make grass of the
very finest texture. It needed a delicate, well-groomed soil for its
sustenance, and its prime object was to produce putting greens that
would give great joy to golfers on their game.
So the contents of some bags were to be scattered underneath the trees,
and the contents of the others were to be spread over the putting
greens, and the manager rested and refreshed himself with tea while
this, as he thought, was being done, and he talked pleasantly to me of
the various excellences of the course and the way in which difficulties
of soil and situation had been conquered. And then there broke in upon
us an emissary from the man who had been sowing the seed, who came to
say, “Please, sir, there’s been a sort of accident happened, and it’s
like as William has been and mistaken and gone and planted the putting
green seed under them trees, and he’s planted the seed as’ll make the
long grass on some of the putting greens. And we want to know, sir, what
we must do!” What, indeed?
X
When October comes we bid her a very loyal and joyful welcome, for we
have come to regard her as the queen of months for golf. No soul so
serene as that of the golfer as he tees the ball on a bright October
morning. It sometimes seems to us of the links that we are glad of every
change in the seasons. When it is spring, we look forward to the coming
of summer, and then we sigh for the autumn, and in turn are glad even to
sink back to the adventures and trials of the heroic golf that we are
called upon to play in the winter-time. And yet it is seldom through
discontent that we thus anticipate the changing of the seasons, but
rather that we, as golfers, do so highly appreciate the glorious variety
which is afforded to us by the system of Nature. Constantly happy in our
game, while we are playing it, the season is for the moment forgotten,
and it is only in the intervals of holes or rounds that we are roused to
the eternal transformation that is proceeding.
“With thee conversing I forget all time;
All seasons and their change, all please alike.”
But there is nothing sweeter than the bright October morning on the
links. A fragrant smell of moist earth rises up, and it is as if that
very scent is a rare stimulant to the golfer after the heat of summer.
There is a fine spring in the turf as we tread upon it, and, quite
revelling in it, we find that we must needs go tripping light-heartedly
along the links until the problems of the play at a couple of holes have
sobered us down. We like even to see the dewdrops lingering on until
starting time, taking advantage of the laggard autumnal sun. The film of
mist that is hanging a few holes out, and the suspicion of a nip in the
air, are fine. And then there are the glorious tints of autumn, the
yellows and the crimsons and the browns, blended as only one Artist
knows how to blend them, and, amidst the happiness of it all, the
pathos of the scene comes in upon us as we listen to the faint crackle
of falling leaves. The heart of every golfer is touched by all these
changes, for whatever may have been his previous disposition and his
tastes in life, each one becomes in time something of a Nature lover,
and acquires a knowledge and interest in some of the simpler features of
her work. For, of all games, golf is the game which is most closely
allied with simple Nature. A little ball, a stick, a small hole, and the
open country at her wildest and roughest, and there you have your golf.
Then what is deeper than the soul’s content of the golfer when he
finishes the afternoon round just as the red sun is dipping away to
other lands, and by the time he and his clubs are cleaned, the twilight
is already changing into the evening gloom, and the thing that it seems
best to do is that which is one of the happiest in the golfer’s day,
which is to sit by a bright fire and talk with one’s enemy of the links
of all the good and the bad golf that has been played since the morning.
Come night, we have had our day, and this talk by the fire, while the
white mists gather again upon the links outside, is yet more cheering to
the heart of the golfer than all the evenings of summer.