The man who peddles sassafras
May herald Gentle Spring;
The red-breast or the greening grass
A promise o’t may bring;
But I know Spring is on the bound
And leaping o’er the hills
When Old Doc Prentiss gets around
With a pocketful of pills.
He takes one from its paper coat,
A globe of glossy white:
“Now, that will roll right to the hole,
And has a screaming flight.
Take one each day and soak it good,
And slam it through the air;
You’ll get relief from every grief,
And every cark and care.”
Sure harbinger of Spring, is Doc,
With pocket full of pills,
The which I’m sure will quickly cure
My winter’s store of ills.
And when the grasses show less sere,
And softer grow the skies,
I’ll bid farewell to every fear
And wipe my weeping eyes.
* * * * *
In quest of a certain volume of golf scripture we visited the Crerar
Library in Chicago. Mr. Andrews, the librarian, apologized for the lack
of scripture on his shelves, saying that the Public Library had agreed
to take over all amusements. Amusement, forsooth! Golf is a religion, a
disease, a fixed idea, a state of mind, a system of metaphysics, what you
will—but _not_ an amusement. And Mr. Andrews himself a golfer!
* * * * *
When a man has to be coaxed into a golf game he is tired.