I.—THE GAME.
Given a bat and a ball, and the combinations that may be evolved are practically infinite in their variety. Every generation or thereabouts a new game or some modification of an old one suddenly rises into favor, and all the world plays croquet or tennis or golf. To-day it is golf, and yet the game divides with polo the honor of being the oldest of which we have any records. It has been played in Scotland for hundreds of years, but it is only within the last ten that it has become generally known and taken up. In this country the game is hardly two years old, but already there are over a hundred courses or grounds, a national association, and championship meetings for nearly every class of players. There must be something of good in a sport which has been taken up with such enthusiasm, and although "Young America" is very properly opposed to anything that harbors a suspicion of slowness, it is only fair to look into a case before deciding upon it.
A TEEING-GROUND.
Of course the first thing is to inquire into the object and nature of the game. A golf course is generally laid out over rolling ground for the sake of variety, and standing at the first tee, or striking-off place, we see before us a stretch of turf that has been cleared of long grass and bushes, and in the distance (say 150 or 200 yards away) a square patch of smooth, hard lawn, in the centre of which a flag is fluttering. The square patch is the putting-green, and the flag marks the location of a small hole four inches in diameter and six inches deep, and generally lined with tin. Each player is provided with an assortment of curious-looking clubs and a small white hard-rubber ball, and the object is to finally knock the ball into the hole in the fewest possible number of strokes. Each player has his own ball, and the play begins from a particular spot, called the teeing-ground, and marked by whitewash or pins driven into the turf. This first stroke is called the tee-shot, and the player is allowed to tee his ball, or place it upon a little mound of sand, so that he may have the best possible chance of hitting it. But once the tee-shot is played, the ball cannot be touched again, except by a club, and no matter how short a distance it may go, or even if the ball is missed altogether, it still counts a stroke. The player who is farthest away from the hole always plays first, and he must keep on playing until he has passed the place where his adversary's ball is lying. When both balls have finally been played into the hole, the player who has accomplished the task in the fewest number of strokes or actual hits at the ball is said to have won the hole, and counts one scoring-point.
A short distance from this first hole is the second teeing-ground, and the players take up their balls and, walking over to the new point of departure, tee their balls, and strike off in the direction of the second hole. We will suppose that A, the first player, holes his ball this time in six strokes, and B does the same. The hole is then said to be halved, and is counted for neither side. But A, having won the first hole, is still ahead by one point, and this is called "one up." If he had won this second hole, he would have been "two up." Or again, if he had lost it, the game would have been "even all."
The full course is eighteen holes, but very good golf may be played on a course of twelve, nine, six, or even five holes. The game is won by the player who wins the greater number of holes, and this is the original game, now called match-play. Nowadays medal-play is more common, the only practical difference being in the scoring. In medal-play the total score for all the holes made by each player is added up, and the lowest number wins. For instance, if A goes around a six-hole course in 40, and B in 39, B is the winner.
One of the great advantages of the game is that you can play and have good sport even if there is no one to go around with you. You can try to beat your own best previous record, and, if possible, to lower the best score ever made by anybody over the course. If you succeed in this last, you will have gained the proud distinction of holding the "record for the course." Another good modification of the game is the "foursome," where there are two partners on each side, striking alternately at the same ball. But the ordinary match is against one adversary, and there is no reason why a girl may not play an interesting game against her brother. She may not be able to hit the ball quite so far, but once near the hole, where accuracy and not strength is required, she should be able to hold her own, and it is an old saying that many a game is won on the putting-green. Or again, she may be handicapped by an allowance of so many strokes, for in golf, as in billiards, handicapping does not detract from the interest as it does in tennis. There is no fun playing tennis against a very much weaker opponent, for you win rather on your adversary's mistakes than by your own skill, and this is fatal to true sport.
MODERN GOLF CLUBS.
1. Cleek. 2. Mashie. 3. Brassy. 4. Putter. 5. Driver. 6. Lofter. 7. Iron.
Now that we know what we have to do, let us take a look at the instruments with which the work is done. In the illustration seven clubs are pictured, and there is, at first glance, but very little difference between them. Of course, to see and handle the clubs themselves is far more satisfactory than any description, but the following hints may enable you to recognize them when you do see them. And first as to the different parts of the clubs and their name.
The striking surface is called the face, and the bottom, or the place where it rests on the ground, is the sole. The part nearest the angle made by the handle is the heel, and the extreme end is the nose. Both the wooden and the iron clubs are made in two pieces, the striking part being called the head, the long handle the shaft, and the place where they are joined together the neck or (in the case of the iron clubs) the hose. Some of these names may strike you oddly, but remember that the game is very old, and these terms have grown on to it somewhat as barnacles upon a ship's bottom.
The driver (No. 5) is a wooden club; it has generally the longest shaft of all the clubs, and is supposed to be the most powerful. It is always used for the first, or tee, shot, and in a good player's hands it will drive the ball from 150 to 200 yards. A boy's driving, especially at first, will be about 50 yards shorter, and a girl should be able to cover from 70 to 100 yards.
After the tee-shot the driver may be used again if the ball is lying clean—that is, in a good position—but most players prefer the brassy (No. 3), which is so called because its sole is shod with a brass plate. Generally, too, its face is spooned, or slanting slightly backwards, so as to raise the ball in the air, and its range is but little short of the regular driver.
Should the ball be lying in a hollow of the ground (called a cup), the cleek (No. 1) is the proper club to use. This is the straightest faced of all the iron clubs, and usually has a slightly longer shaft than the others. The cleek is also a powerful club, and its use is generally confined to free hitting when the object is to send the ball the longest possible distance.
But with the ball deeply imbedded in a cup, or with a sand bunker or other difficulty to surmount, it is necessary that the ball should be lofted, or raised higher in the air than the cleek can do it, and in such a case use the lofter, or lofting iron (No. 6), whose face is still further laid back. Or in the bunker itself you may take the mashie (No. 2) with its short head and very much laid back face. Its shape fits it to enter cart ruts and other places where the longer head of the cleek or lofter would stick fast. The iron (No. 7) is simply a modification between the cleek and lofter, and its carrying or driving power varies in about the same ratio. The beginner need not include it in his set, nor bother about it at all until he has played for some time.
POSITION OF THE HANDS IN HOLDING THE CLUB.
Last of all comes the putter (No. 4), with a perfectly straight face and springless shaft. Its great essential is good balance, and it is used for the final act of holing out or putting proper.
These six—driver, brassy, cleek, lofter, mashie, and putter—are all that are actually needed for the game, and quite enough for the beginner to experiment with. They cost at the shops from $1.25 to $1.50 apiece, and they are made in lighter weights for girls and young boys.
The best way to start is to play a round at once, standing up square to the ball and hitting naturally at it. Grip the club as though it were a hammer, and you were about to strike a blow straight down upon the anvil. Then, without altering the position of your hands, place the club flat on the ground close behind the ball, and hit. By the time next week comes around you will have shaken yourself down into some kind of position, and will be ready for more detailed instruction.
Keep your eye on the ball.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER VI.
"Do not move until I give you leave, if you have to sit there until to-morrow morning."
Flea recalled the exact words, and said them over as her death-sentence. For she would be dead when they opened the school-house to-morrow morning. Even her father would not interfere when he heard that she was kept in. He always upheld the teacher's authority, and this teacher was put into his place and backed by Major Duncombe. Her father would not dare to come for her to-night. She slid from the bench to the floor, resting her aching head within her arms upon the seat. The roaring and singing in her head hindered her from hearing the sound of the door as it opened and shut softly. The rustling of a skirt and fall of feet upon the floor were not louder than the play of the dead leaves had been. She did start and spring to her feet as a hand was laid on her head, and found herself face to face with Miss Em'ly.
"Why, my dear little scholar!" cooed the visitor. "What is all this about? I can't believe you mean to be naughty."
She pulled Flea to a seat beside her and kept hold of her hand. She had never looked prettier than now. Her blue riding-habit and cap became her fair skin and bright curls; her cheeks were like roses, her eyes were kind. As she drew the girl to the bench she gave her a little squeeze that opened the sluiceway of the tears Flea had believed would never flow again.
"Tut! tut!" coaxed Miss Em'ly. "This will never do. Eliza and Robert and I came to get Mr. Tayloe to go riding with us. We've got his horse out yonder. He says he can't go because you must stay in until you say something he told you to say. Now, dearie, you won't spoil my ride—will you?"
Flea could not speak, but she shook her head vehemently.
"That's what I said! and I ran right off here to get you to say whatever it is to me—don't you see? Then, I'll make him let you off. What is it? Say it, quick!"
Flea's wet eyes looked straight into her friend's.
"He wants me to say 'A thorn scratched my face as I came through the woods.' It isn't true, Miss Em'ly."
"How did you get hurt then? Tell me that."
The child took a sudden resolution.
"You'll never never tell, Miss Em'ly? Upon your word of honor?"
"Never, once! Never, twice! Never, three times!" crossing her heart playfully.
"And you won't feel bad about it?"
"You little goose! Why should I feel bad about what you have done?"
When she had heard the short story, artlessly told, the young lady's tone and countenance altered. Tears gathered in the blue eyes and rolled down upon Flea's upturned face as the listener kissed her once and again upon the scratched cheek.
"YOU DEAR, BRAVE, SPLENDID CHILD!"
"You dear, brave, splendid child! To think you have done all this for me! I'll never forget it to my dying day."
"I would have died before I would have told on you, Miss Em'ly!" cried the excited girl, her eyes shining with the enthusiasm of self-sacrifice.
Miss Em'ly's serious mood had passed already. She called Flea "a little goose" again, and bade her "get her books and things and run along home."
"I'll settle everything with Mr. Tayloe. Kiss me 'Good-by' and be off."
"It's all right!" she called gayly from the school-house steps. "May she go? She's said it."
"If you go security for her," answered Mr. Tayloe, coming towards them, and Flea was off like an arrow out of a bow. He should not see that she had been crying.
The teacher was not altogether satisfied.
"You really made her repeat what I said she must before she could go?" he said, in settling Miss Emily in her saddle.
She pouted prettily, "I really made her say, 'A—thorn—scratched—my—face—as—I—came—through—the—woods,'" dropping the words in mock solemnity. "Now let us talk of pleasanter things than school worries."
Not one of the horseback party gave another thought to the overseer's daughter, racing through woods and over ploughed fields in an air-line for home, her heart as light as a bird, and as full of music.
"I'll never forget it to my dying day," was to her a solemn pledge of eternal friendship. To have won it was worth all she had borne that day. As she ran, she sang and smiled like the owner of a blissful secret. In the fullness of her joy she even forgot to hate Mr. Tayloe.
Her short-cut took her through a matted wilderness of shrubs and weeds, past a deserted cabin set back from the main road. A negro, driven crazy by drink, had murdered his wife and child there years before, and the hut had never been occupied since. The negroes believed it to be haunted. Not a colored man, woman, or child in the region would have ventured within a hundred yards of it after nightfall. The deserted hovel had a weird charm for Flea, and, finding herself a little tired after her run, she sat down upon the stone door-step to enjoy the sunset, and to go on with a "poem" inspired last week by the haunted house. Four lines were already composed, written and hidden away in the hair trunk where she kept her clothes at home. A nameless diffidence kept her from speaking of the fragments of stories and rhyme entombed under flannel petticoats and home-knit stockings. She said the four lines aloud while she rested. Unpruned trees grew over the grass-grown path leading to the closed door. Sumac bushes, vivid with scarlet leaves and maroon velvet cones, had sprung up close to the walls. In what was once a garden wild sunflowers bloomed rankly.
The girl's poetic soul felt the charm of a melancholy she could not define; she longed to clothe with language the feelings excited by mellow light, rich colors, and silence that yet spoke to her. She recited her rhymes in a low, deep voice:
"It stands beside the weedy way;
Shingles are mossy, walls are gray;
Gnarled apple branches guard the door;
Wild vines have bound it o'er and o'er."
Then and there two more lines came to her with a rush that sent the blood throbbing to her cheeks:
"The sumac whispers, with its leaves of flame,
'Here once was done a deed without a name.'"
She leaned against the door, weak and trembling. It was as if virtue had gone out of her. She had breathed poetry! When grown-up people have such flushes and thrills we call them "poetic fire," and "the divine afflatus." The halting lines were not poetry, but the child believed that they were. That did quite as well—for her.
While she sat and exulted, the sound of a doleful whistle arose on the evening air. Shaking off the spell that bound her, she tore her way through a web of vines, sunflowers, and purple brush, jumped over the broken palings, and ran down the sloping field to the road. Dee sat upon a stone in a corner of the fence, whistling "Balerma." His hat was off, and he looked tired and out of spirits.
"Why, Dee!" cried his sister, "I thought you were at home hours ago."
"I warn't a-goin' without you, ef I stayed here till plumb night. An', Flea"—as she kissed his freckled face—"I tole Bea she might's well let 'em think at home 'twas me that was kep' in. Twouldn't be no rarity for me to be kep' in, you see. One or two times more wouldn't make no difference."
"Wouldn't that be acting a lie, Dee?" She could not scold him, but conscience urged her not to let the matter pass without notice. "And I couldn't let you be scolded instead of me. Perhaps father and mother may not ask any questions. Maybe my luck has turned."
Their hopes were not disappointed. Mrs. Grigsby was busy in the kitchen helping Chancy to make soap, and had not seen Bea return without the other children. Mr. Grigsby did not get in from the plantation until supper was on the table, and was too weary to ask questions. Flea's secret was safe for the time.
"To-morrow will be another day," she said to Bea, who "reckoned," as they were undressing that night, that Flea "had made a bad start with the new teacher." "I'm going to do my best, and, as Chancy is always saying, 'angels can't do no more.'"
People did not talk of "pluck" and "grit" and "sand" then. But our heroine had an abundance of what the slang words imply.
The school settled down to the business of the session in a surprisingly short time. With all his faults, Mr. Tayloe had the knack of imparting knowledge. He was strict to severity, never letting an imperfect lesson or a breach of discipline pass unpunished, and his pupils quickly learned that they must work and obey rules or get into serious trouble. Flea studied as she had never studied before, partly from sheer love of learning, partly because she had determined to prove her fitness to enter the higher classes in the face of the teacher's unwillingness to promote her. Courage and spirits arose with every new obstacle.
On the last day of the month the severest test of will and courage was laid upon her. At the close of the afternoon arithmetic lessons Mr. Tayloe asked for her slate, worked at it for a while, and returned it to her. The curve of his smile was like a horseshoe as he saw her eyes dilate with alarm at what she read there:
1844)368873761575231504(
He had written the same upon Annie Douthat's slate, and also upon Fanny Tabb's.
"If you three girls can do it by to-morrow morning, you can go into the next higher class. If not, you stay where you are. And look here, all of you, nobody must help you. If I find that you have been helped to so much as a single figure, you will be publicly disgraced."
On the same afternoon the first monthly reports were given out. It was a new measure to all the scholars, and when they learned that the papers were to be taken home, signed by the parents, and brought back next day, the most careless were impressed with a sense of the dignity of the transaction. The roll was called, each boy and girl in turn marched up to the desk, received a folded paper, and marched out of the school-house. Flea Grigsby got with hers a glance that went to her heart like the stab of ice-cold steel. It was unexpected, for her recitations had been perfect throughout the month, and she had striven hard to carry herself modestly and respectfully towards the despot of the little domain. Warned by the peculiar gleam of the light-blue eyes, she tucked the report between the leaves of her geography, instead of opening it, as every one else did, on the way to the door or as soon as he or she gained the outer air. Bea had walked on with another girl, but Dee was waiting for Flea at the bottom of the steps. She wished that he had not hung back to go with her. Even his honest, affectionate gaze would add to the humiliation which she felt was in store for her when that fatal bit of paper should be opened. She longed, yet dreaded, to know exactly what form the new shame would take. No one seemed to think of asking her what was in her report. The other scholars were too busy discussing their own, and rejoicing or lamenting over the contents. Dee was naturally incurious. He showed his report. It said, "Lessons indifferent. Conduct good."
"It mought 'a' been worse," observed Dee, philosophically. "I don' see what good the doggoned things do, anyhow."
Flea changed the subject, chatting of any thing and everything except the report she fancied she could hear rustling between the leaves of Olney's Geography, her nerves more tense every minute. By the time they reached the haunted house—they had taken the short-cut across the fields—she could bear the suspense no longer.
She sat down upon the flat stone that did duty for a door-step, took off her hat, and stretched her arms out, yawningly. "Don't wait for me, Dee. It is so nice and quiet here that I think I'll begin to work at that horrid sum. I can think better than at home with the children around. Tell mother I'll be in before supper-time."
The little fellow obeyed dutifully. He was growing daily more fond of the sister who helped him with his lessons, and never scolded him for being slow, and told him secrets of what they would do together when she became famous. Her conscience smote her slightly as he trudged off, his hands in his pockets, his bag of books slung over his shoulder by a twine string, and humping his calves as he walked. He knew but one tune, and that was "Balerma." He began to whistle it as soon as he turned his back. He would whistle it all the way home. He called it, "O happy is the soul."
Flea laid the slate she had carried carefully, lest the test sum should get rubbed out, as carefully upon the stone beside her, and took Olney's Geography from her bag. The report was written upon an oblong piece of foolscap, folded once. Mr. Tayloe wrote a round, clear hand:
"October 31, 184-.
"Felicia Jean Grigsby: Lessons, usually fair. Conduct—room for improvement!
"James Tayloe."
There was a sneer for Flea in each of the three words that came after the dash. The line that emphasized them was heavy and black, and raised a welt upon her heart.
The sun had gone down, and the recessed door-step was dim with the shadows of the neglected vines overgrowing it, before she lifted her head from her knees to listen to footsteps in the dry weeds at the back of the cabin. Some laborer was probably passing by on his way home from the field. If she did not move, he would go on without seeing her. The steps came closer to her, until somebody stooped under the overhanging creepers, shutting out the light of the sky, and Flea felt hot breath upon her very face. She jumped up:
"Who are you?" she began.
A strong hand gripped her arm, another covered her mouth, and she was lifted bodily from her hiding-place. As the light showed her features the rough hold was slackened; a cracked laugh relieved her fright.
"Bless yo' soul, honey! How you skeered me! I 'clar' to gracious, I thought you was a ghos', or maybe the Old Boy hisself. I won' git over the turn you give me fur a week."
In proof of the shock to her nervous system Mrs. Fogg dropped herself upon the stone from which she had drugged Flea, and began to suck in her breath loudly and irregularly, as if the air were a thick fluid, fanning herself at the same time with her gingham apron.
"I was sitting here thinking, Mrs. Fogg, on my way from school," stammered the girl, really shaken by the adventure. "It's one of my favorite resting-places."
"I wouldn't come hyur much ef I was you, honey," sinking her voice, and glancing over her shoulder at the closed door. "It's a norful place for snakes an' scarripens" (scorpions) "an' lizards. An' it's wuss fur ha'nts. I've been see things here with my own two eyes o' nights, an' heered sech scritchin' an' bellerin' as 'mos' tarrified me to death. Stay 'way from hyur, honey. You're too sweet an' pretty to be cyarried off by the ole Satan."
Flea collected her bag, books, and slate from the ground, and gave a hard, miserable laugh.
"Satan lives in a better house than this, Mrs. Fogg. He wears broadcloth every day and Sunday too, and a fine gold watch and chain. I've seen him too often to be afraid of him."
The old woman pricked up her ears sharply; her bony hand reached up to clutch Flea's wrist.
"What you talkin' 'bout, honey-pie? Ole Nick couldn't w'ar a gold watch"—cackling at her joke; "'twould git melted. Don' yer understan'?"
"He lays it on the desk by him to see how long boys and girls can stand the torment," rushed on the girl, recklessly. "He lives most of the time in the school-house. That's his work-shop, where he ruins people's souls and tortures their bodies. Look here, Mrs. Fogg! I told you once that I'd ask Major Duncombe to let your grandchildren go to school. He's been away from home ever since, and I haven't had a chance to speak to him. I tell you now that I don't mean to ask him any such thing. They'd better grow up dunces, without knowing their A B C's, than to go to school to that—that—Evil!"
It was the strongest word she could think of, and she flung it out in a passion of loathing. The crone eyed her curiously, making odd noises in her throat, like a clucking hen.
"You don' say so—you don' say so—now! I suttinly is mighty sorry to hear it, my sweet young lady. I was jes a-sayin' to my daughter yistiddy how I meant to stop you termorrer mornin' as you went by the gate an' remin' you o' what you done promise' me. An' the chillens are crazy to go to school. Larnin' is a mighty fine thing for anybody. That's what I keep on a-tellin' on 'em. 'Larnin' is a good thing,' says I. In the fear of the Lord, of course—"
"There's no fear of the Lord in that school!" interrupted Flea, bitterly. "I ought to know, if anybody does. Good-by, Mrs. Fogg."
She had dashed over the tumble-down fence and was flying across the field before the old woman could stop her, if, indeed, she wished to prolong the interview.