her on the heel of the club, when she spins, with much "cut" on, into
the sea. I may hit her with the toe of the club, when she soars to
square leg, and perhaps breaks a window. I used to try running in at
the ball, as if it were a half-volley at Cricket, but that way lies
madness. However, suppose that, in a lucid interval (as will happen),
I hit her clean. She soars away, and falls within forty yards of a
meandering burn. The hole, the haven where one would be, is beyond the
burn.

I seize a cleek or an iron, it turns in my hand, cuts up the turf, and
the ball rolls half a dozen feet. My opponent has crossed the burn.
I try again; a fearful misdirected shot; the ball soars over the
burn and lands in a road behind the hole. There is no hitting out of
this road, or, if one does hit a desperate blow, the ball lands in
an eccentric sand-hole, called the Scholar's Bunker. We start for
the next hole. _Même jeu!_ Now we are in the gorse, now among the
Station Master's potatoes, now in the railway, where all hope may be
abandoned, now in bunkers many, now missing the ball altogether, when
you feel as if your arms had flown off. As for "putting" the short
strokes on the green, near the hole, if I hit sharp, the ball runs
over the hole yards and yards beyond, or if I hit mild, it stops with
an air of plaintive resignation, after dribbling for a foot or two.
And the worst of it is that, sometimes, you will play as well as
another for half-a-dozen holes. Then one thinks one has The Secret!
But it falls from us, vanishes, we are topping and slicing, and
heeling, and missing again as sorrily as ever.

The beauty of Golf is that there are so many ways of going wrong, and
so many things to think of. A person of very moderately active mind
has his ideas diverted by the landscape, the sea, the blossom on the