And so, heigho! another full year of golf has run to its end, and we
come to pause for a little while to reflect upon the new chapter that
has been added to the long happy story of our play; for, indeed, it is
true of us golfers, as it is of others, that “we spend our years as a
tale that is told.” For some days now the links which have served us so
faithfully and so well during all this year, have been at rest, asleep.
Nature, the gentle considerate nurse, sometimes comes to the help of
these precious acres of green turf in that season when their lot is the
least happy, fending away us tyrant masters while she lays them to
repose and wraps up each teeing ground and putting green and all the way
between in the thick mantle that she weaves herself. Perhaps the players
do not always know that the grass welcomes this snow, and is not, as
they might imagine, stifled with it and reduced to such unconsciousness
as to be near the point of death. The snow both nourishes and warms the
worn-out turf--collects and holds down for its sustenance all the
available nitrogen in the atmosphere, and then covers it with that thick
cloak which generates only warmth beneath. Presently, when the frosts
cease and the snow melts and the grass lies bare again, those who have
recollection enough for the comparison will see that it is greener and
stronger than it was before. When there is a championship in prospect on
St. Andrews links, the wise and good greenkeeper there beseeches kind
Nature that of her infinite variety she will vouchsafe to his little
patch of earth for some several days of winter a heavy fall of snow,
that in due course he may better serve up to his master golfers a links
of such perfection of order as will please them to the utmost. What
shall he care if the old grey place is beleaguered by these storms of
snow, if the Swilcan Burn is almost covered up, and if it would be as
much as the life of the captain of the Royal and Ancient Club were worth
to try to find the line to the Long Hole? Hush, you grumbling golfers!
The old course, weary, is at rest; and patiently will the happy
greenkeeper wait for its awakening. There is something of pathos in the
time and the scene, as:
“Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing;
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.”
How much does it mean to us, does a year of golf! In the last few
moments of the year that you give up to golfing thought and reverie as
you sit by the cheerful fire, and perhaps, according to the old fancy,
toy on the hearthrug for a while with the putter that you hold at
convenience in the corner, and the memento ball that you preserve upon
the mantelpiece--at such time make a pleasant reflection upon all the
joy and the gladness, and the health and the adventure, and the glorious
rivalry and close comradeship that have been crowded into this short
space of time! Above all, think how much nearer in most blessed
friendship has this year of golf drawn you to those who are most after
your own heart! There is no habit of man that can do more than golf
towards such an end as this, and it is in his abundance of the best
friends that a man lives most happily and to the best purpose.
And the golfer has seen more of the year, of the real year of Nature so
complex and so complete in its variety and balance, than the other men
who live in towns. He braved it in the open lands through the bitter
weeks of January and February, and he was cheerful through the winds and
rains that followed, for as the rainbows spread across the sky he knew
that the glorious spring had come, most heartening time of all the
golfing year. Then would he stamp his feet on turf grown firm, and
acclaim his ball with affection for its constant cleanliness. The
golfer, even he of the town, hears the change in the song of the birds,
he notices the newcomers among them; he has interest in the leafing of
the trees, and lo! the big sun of summer shines upon him. And when can
golfer be happier than when, after droning lazily through a hot
afternoon, he plays an evening round upon the links in those most
perfect conditions for pure delight? Surely it is hard to say which of
those rounds is the best, that of the spring morning, the autumn
morning, or the one in the balmy evening of June. And the golfer, bold
and lucky, who once in a way makes his ripest play on some wild day in
December when the wind from the sea comes like a blast across the links
and all above is dripping scud, would in his pride not grant that the
golfer lived his life at the full on any of those other days of peace
and calm. So, from the play in the long summer twilight, we wander down
the year, through brown October to the greys that follow, and the white
curtain falls at last upon the exhausted season.