Degenerate Days
For years our hard-boiled foursome
Came to the eighteenth hole;
And then the struggle for a par,
To save a payment at the bar.
The café beckoned from afar
To every thirsty soul.
When now on Sunday morning
Fred steps upon the tee,
With dull despair his brow is wet;
We do not care what score we get—
For ice cream sodas are the bet,
The price of victory.
“The time has come,” I heard Fred mutter,
“For me to fall upon my putter.”
Double Barrel.
Golfers, the days are growing shorter. Get out after dinner and save some daylight for the farmers.
“Golf has its jokes, undoubtedly,” says Dr. Francis Hackett, “but it has no joke such a joke as golf itself.” If Francis were thirty or forty years younger he would yell “Fore!” whenever he saw a man going along with a bag of clubs.
We have frequently wondered why we play such a messy game on a golf course new to us. Mr. Vardon explains. “The perspective of the course” at Inverness bothered him.
When Harry Vardon relates that he putted from the edge of the green, and “thanks to the fates of golf” the ball fell into the cup, he means that he made a damned good putt and is wholly aware of the fact.
Mr. Harding, we read, shoots Chevy Chase in 95, “but is known to be ambitious to reach par,” which is 71. Any golfer should be able to get a laugh out of that.