engines. First there is the Driver, a long club, wherewith the ball
is supposed to be propelled from the tee, a little patch of sand.
The Tee and the Caddie have nothing to do with each other; nobody
but a flippant Cockney sees any fun in plays upon words which, in
themselves, are only too serious. Then there is a weapon called a
Brassey. It is like unto a club, but is shod with brass, and is used
for hitting a ball in "a bad lie" among long grass or heather. A small
tomahawk, styled a Cleek, is employed when you don't know what else to
play with. The same remark applies to an Iron, which is very good for
missing the ball with, also for hitting to square leg when you meant
to go straight. A "Mashy" is a smaller "iron." The skilful use these
when the ball lies in sand, in gorse, or when they wish to make the
ball soar for a short distance and then fall dead. A Putter is a short
thickish club used for jogging the ball into the hole with. There are
plenty of other kinds of clubs, also spoons, but _these_ are enough to
break the heart of any Duffer.

I am an old player, of forty years' standing, but, like _Parolles_ I
was "made for every man to breathe himself on." When my form is espied
near the links, the players shirk off as if I were a leper. They are
afraid I may want to make a match with them, and there is no falsehood
from which they will shrink, in their desire to escape me. Even
Ladies,--but this is a delicate theme. Beginners breathe themselves on
me, and give me odds after two or three engagements.

Yet I don't know why I am so bad. True, I am short-sighted, never see
the flag at the hole, play in the wrong direction, and talk a good
deal on topics of academic interest during the round. The Golfer's
mind should be a blank, and generally is "blank enough," like _Sir
Tor's_ shield. My mind is, perhaps, too active--that may be what