The patient’s brow was hot and dry,
His pulse was running rather high;
The missus, worried by his groans,
Dispatched a call for Doctor Jones.
Doc, summoned from his favorite game,
Picked up his other tools and came;
And presently he reached the door,
Exclaiming as he entered, “Fore!”
He drew a chair beside the bed,
And felt the patient’s feverish head;
He took his pulse, and said, “I see.
He’s doing it in 93.
Too high,” said he, “Too high by far;
He’s twenty-one beats over par.”
Then turning to the anxious wife,
“He’s not in danger of his life;
His general health is good enough,
He’s merely slicing to the rough.
These simple pills I leave with you
Will get him down to 72.
He’ll soon be back in summer form.
Good morning, madam. Rather warm.”
* * * * *
A lady in Lake Forest, Ill., whose cottage is within a few yards of the
tenth hole at Onwentsia, tells us that there are no good players in the
club. It seems that the members of foursomes gather at this tee to make
up their matches for the day, and the lady in the cottage has overheard
so much self-depreciation, she has come to the natural conclusion that
every player in the club ought to be started at least six up.
* * * * *
Whenever we play at Onwentsia we think of an odd happening at the first
tee a few years ago. A waiting foursome of plutocrats were discussing a
Certain Rich Man. “Oh, he’s not so well off,” remarked one; “his income
can’t be more than $250,000 a year.” At that moment a visiting golfer
from the Skokie club, who was in the act of swinging, topped his drive
and fell into a swoon.
* * * * *
It is an old saying that too much abuse of a man will enlist sympathy
for him. So with the stymie. Many players who considered it merely a
necessary nuisance are beginning to feel that they can’t keep house
without it.