AN ANTHOLOGY OF THE LINKS.

When morning crowns the distant downs With veil of azure gossam; When black bat wheels, and twilight steals The blush from every blossom— Hist! to a sudden mysterious click, The caddie shudders and shrinks, The scarlet-jacketed heart beats thick— 'Tis the fantom of the links. The first was he on the family tree Of canny professional laddies, In Pluto's halls he hungers for balls— They say he's a weakness for caddies. Hist! when you feel a thrill in the breeze, A whisper that rises and sinks, When there looms a shape by the misty trees— 'Tis the fantom of the links. Then fly the green tho' fit and keen To drive like soaring rocket, You'll search till dark for balls you mark— They're in his intangible pocket. Back from the cliff and the shimmering bay, The dune and the pebble-strewn brinks, Mortal, you'll get the worst of the play With the fantom of the links. When through the gray the dawning day Slants over gorse and heather, When sun has set and grass is wet. And mist-wreaths twine together— List to a sudden mysterious click, The caddie shudders and shrinks, The scarlet-jacketed heart beats thick— 'Tis the fantom of the links.

Standing one day on the golf-links, I was weary and ill at ease; And I baffled and foozled idly Over the whins and tees. I know not what I was dreaming, Or where I was rubbering then; But I swiped that ball, of a sudden, With the force of two score men. It sped through the crimson twilight Like a shot from a ten-inch gun; And it passed from my fevered vision To the realm of the vanished sun; It chasséed over the bunker, It caromed hazard and hill; It went like a thing infernal— I suppose it is going still. It shied each perplexing stymie With infinite nerve and ease; And bored right on through the landscape As if it were loath to cease. I have sought—but I seek it vainly— That ball of the strenuous pace, That went from the sole of my niblick And entered into space. It may be some blooming caddie Can sooner or later explain; It may be that only in heaven I shall find that ball again.

We were propped against the 'dobe of that joint o' Poker Bill's, When a tenderfoot was spotted, actin' queerlike in the hills; He'd a ball of gutta-percha, and was puttin' in his licks, Jest a-knockin' it to glory with a bunch o' crooked sticks. Well, we went up there quite cur'us, and we watched him paste the ball, 'Til a itchin fer to try it seemed to get a holt of all. And at last Packsaddle Stevens asked to give the thing a swat, And we gathered round to see him show the stranger what was what. Well, the golfer stuck the speroid on a little pile o' dirt, And Packsaddle swiped and swatted, but he didn't do no hurt. He barked his shins terrific, and he broke his little stick, And when he heard a snicker his guns came out too quick. We dropped behind the cactus, with some holes clipped in our clothes, While the golfer for the sky-line wagged his checker-boarded hose; And when we took home Stevens and three others that was hurt The golf-ball still was settin' on its little pile o' dirt. So we ain't no new St. Andrews, and we hope no golfer thinks He can cut loose here in Cactus with a set of oatmeal links; We go in fer games that's quiet, and stir up no blood and fuss, And down in Cactus Center poker's good enough for us.

The links were bright and bonny wi' the tartan and the plaid When the pride o' Skibo village met the best St. Andrews had; The play was fast and furious, and sair the ball was thwacked, And in the final test o' skill one point Maclaren lacked. The caddies stood wi' bated breath, and every face was set, For not a man was in the crowd but had his siller bet; And one lad cried, as wi' his stick Maclaren loomed up tall: "Hoot, mon! now show 'em hoo Old Skibo kills the ball!" The gowlfer lookit at the sky, and then doon at the dirt, And cannily he weighed his stock and loosed his plaided shirt; He slowly planted both his feet, and then replanted each, And dinna doot he swung his arms as high as he could reach. Grim death at just that moment would have been Maclaren's wish, For the atmosphere resounded to that mighty empty swish; His stick flew like a rocket, but, alas! the wo decreed! The ball rolled two feet sickly, when it just lay doon and deed. Oh, somewhere in our bonny land the pipes skirl all the day, And somewhere lads and lassies shout, and men are passing gay; But we are dour in Skibo, and no joy is hereabout, Since the day when, like one Casey, our Maclaren foozled out.

It was a joy to be alive, When I could always see My golf-ball, from a slashing drive, Go soaring off the tee; When, as my lowered handicap Fell ever nearer scratch, I held my own with any chap In medal play and match. Then foozles never made me groan; Then, gripping like a vise, I swung my club; then all unknown Were top and pull and slice; Then all my deft approaches sped Directly to their goal; Then all my longest putts lay dead, Or fell into the hole. Oh! cruel Fate that bade me look, On one ill-omened day, Upon the pictures in the book Of Vardon's hints on play! For, though I quickly laid it by, That one unlucky dip Into its pages made me try The overlapping grip. Now all my fingers are like thumbs, My club turns round and round; And divots, as it downward comes, Fly upward from the ground. My golf-ball skips to right or left A few short yards and stops; Or, with its surface deeply cleft, Into a bunker drops. And though I swear and fume and fret, My efforts are in vain; And, what is worse, I cannot get The old style back again. So now with sighs and tears and frowns I curse the diagrams That cost me numberless half-crowns, And ah! so many—regrettable comments.