_Maecenas drives, and the Emperor sniffs._
I whaled the ball two hundred yards or more—
A screamer—when up wheeled the Emperor,
Exclaiming, as he watched the sphere sail off,
“Ye gods! Is _that_ the total sum of golf!
Weaklings and mollycoddles, what a shame
To waste your time on such a baby game!
_He bawls Maecenas out._
“And you, Maecenas, ‘Son of Ancient Kings’
(As Flaccus boy satirically sings
In his last book, ‘A Line-o’-Verse or Two’),
Is that the best, old scout, that you can do?
A stroke most ladylike! Why, on my soul,
I’d back Xantippe for a ball a hole!
Say, if I couldn’t slam that piffling pill
Over the crest of yonder fir-clad hill
I’d go jump in the Tiber. Here, I say,
Give me that mallet! Caddy, stand away!”
_Augustus short-circuits himself._
Preluding thus, the Top Card took his stance,
Giving the “pill” a quick, contemptuous glance,
Then swung the driver with terrific force,
And—missed the ball a foot or two, of course.
A caddy snickered, then discreetly blew,
And Caesar after him the driver threw,
With certain objurgations, warm and tinglish,
That look less rude in Latin than in English.
_Maecenas speaks in part as follows._
I laughed and said, “You see, it takes some skill:
You didn’t keep your eye upon the pill.
The striking surface, you’ll observe, is small;
It’s not, Octavius, a soccer ball.”
_The Emperor gets the bug._
“Aw, cut that out, for love of Mike!” said he.
“Laugh if you will—I grant it’s one on me.
Son of a bat!”—he called the nearest caddy—
“We’ll learn this game _alone_. Come on, my laddie;
And if you lose this new ball in the rough
What I will do to you will be enough!”
_Maecenas and his friends play the Nineteenth Hole._
So off they went, while we the club bar found,
And ordered dry martinis all around.