* * * * *
“O wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing”—
And, as Arnold Bennett would say, with those cadences singing in his head
a man will go out and quarrel with a golf ball.
“Golfers sleep on Grounds.”—LEAD, South Dakota CALL.
Nothing uncommon. Our friend B. L. M. takes a nap over every putt.
* * * * *
A reader mentions casually that he took sixteen shots for the first hole
at Skokie, with three balls in the pond. It doesn’t seem possible. Still,
it might be done this way: Three in the pond is six strokes; the seventh
was over, the eighth was topped, the ninth was in the bunker; two chops
make eleven, out in twelve; thirteenth on the green or thereabouts; and
three putts. It’s a great game.
* * * * *
By sheer nerve a golfer with a handicap of twenty-something played
through all the threesomes and foursomes ahead of him, on the Skokie,
holding them all back, blowing up the entire course, and putting
everybody out of humor. When last seen he was smoking a seegar on the
club porch, entirely at peace with himself. It must be great to have a
hide like that.
* * * * *
The cost of golf balls is to be inquired into. For a reasoning
creature, man spends an intolerable time in needless investigation. The
manufacturers charge a high price for golf balls because they can get it.
There is absolutely no other reason.