(_To Old E. C., Donor._)
I care no dam for diamonds or rubies,
For ornaments in silver or in gold;
Such baubles are for babies or for boobies—
A dozen Kohinoors would leave me cold.
Jewels are something I would never bawl for;
To me they’re merely bits of colored rocks.
But one thing, Ed, I simply have to fall for—
A dozen virgin golf balls in a box.
“CONSULT HARRY VARDON.”
DEAR MR. VARDON: We cannot supply a photograph of our chief golfing
fault, but perhaps we can make it clear to you. Our great trouble is
splitting our psyche; we seem not to be able to give an undivided
soul to the ball. Just as we are ready to shoot, something of less
importance—immortality, the war, or the cost of living—comes to mind,
and the result, as often as not, is a top. Any little suggestion will be
appreciated by your constant reader and admirer.
* * * * *
Among those recently bitten by the golf bug is Old Bill Byrne, and he is
making, as he was bound to make, interesting discoveries. “A man isn’t a
good player,” sezzee, “until he can make his drive sound like the wind
storm in ‘Way Down East.’”
* * * * *
Golf is being made safe for democracy, as items like the following
indicate: