[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!"]
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[Illustration: THE AMERICAN HUSBAND]
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[Illustration: THE ENGLISH WIFE]
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[Illustration: