legged skaters, dropsical gentlemen-riders, are to be met with
hobbling on crutches along every highway of the Engadine.

They are pitiable objects. Never having learnt to read anything but
the sporting papers, books are of no use to them. They never wasted
much of their youth on thought, and, apparently, have lost the knack
of it. They don't care for art, and Nature only suggests to them the
things they can no longer do. The snow-clad mountain reminds them
that once they were daring tobogannists; the undulating common makes
them sad because they can no longer handle a golf-club; by the
riverside they sit down and tell you of the salmon they caught before
they caught rheumatic fever; birds only make them long for guns;
music raises visions of the local cricket-match of long ago,
enlivened by the local band; a picturesque estaminet, with little
tables spread out under the vines, recalls bitter memories of ping-
pong. One is sorry for them, but their conversation is not
exhilarating. The man who has other interests in life beyond sport
is apt to find their reminiscences monotonous; while to one another
they do not care to talk. One gathers that they do not altogether
believe one another.

The foreigner is taking kindly to our sports; one hopes he will be
forewarned by our example and not overdo the thing. At present, one
is bound to admit, he shows no sign of taking sport too seriously.
Football is gaining favour more and more throughout Europe. But yet
the Frenchman has not got it out of his head that the coup to
practise is kicking the ball high into the air and catching it upon
his head. He would rather catch the ball upon his head than score a
goal. If he can manoeuvre the ball away into a corner, kick it up
into the air twice running, and each time catch it on his head, he