“All the benefits of outdoors winter golf in the tropics, at the Indoor
Golf School.”—AD.
Within the grimy Loop’s environs,
The rubber pill may be addressed,
A man may swing his golfing irons,
And let his fancy do the rest.
The murmur in the street below,
The elevated’s boom and roar,
Will sound—if fancy have it so—
Like surf upon a tropic shore.
The air within the driving stall
Does not suggest a Stilton cheese,
To one whose mind is on the ball
’Tis fragrant as a tropic breeze.
We, upon whom the spell is laid,
For tropic things care not a whoop,
Imagination’s artful aid
Will bring the tropics to the Loop.
The sun, the breeze, the fields, the rest—
Of them let railway folders sing.
We know, who are by golf obsessed,
The Pill’s the thing! the Pill’s the thing.
* * * * *
“Pairfect,” said Mr. Joe MacMorran, when we indulged him in the pleasure
of watching us swing a golf club. “The swing is pairfect. All ye need
is control.” Or, as the distinguished Kansan said of hell and western
Kansas, all that either place needs is water and good society.
* * * * *
During a golf match at Greenwich this week an approach by Vardon was
so strong that the ball passed the green and hit a lady on the bounce,
recoiling to the flag. “Some back spin!” cried another spectator.