II.—DRIVING.
All golf is divided into three parts—driving, approaching, and holing out—and of these three, driving, or free hitting, either with wood or iron, is by far the most pleasing. It is a delightful sensation to feel the ball slip away almost by itself as the club head swings through, and then to watch it describing its graceful curve of, say, one hundred and fifty yards through the air, or skimming like a swallow, straight and low over that dreaded bunker. Without driving, indeed, there would be very little golf, and happy is the man who may always count upon being both far and sure.
Now although style cannot drive a ball, there is still a right and a wrong way of going at the problem, and the first thing is to clearly understand the conditions of that problem. Let the player imagine himself at the centre of a circle, the radius of which is the length of his arms plus the club shaft, and upon whose circumference is resting the ball that is to be swept away. Remember, too, that it is to be a swing and not a hit, that the club head should be treated as though it were a bit of lead attached to a string, and consequently dependent for its effectiveness on speed and not on weight. Obviously, if the circle in which it swings is not perfect, if at any point the string is suddenly lengthened or shortened, the ball will either be missed altogether or the force will be imperfectly applied, resulting in a loss of power. Take a piece of lead and a bit of string, and try the experiment for yourself. It will at least show you how clearly distinct the golf swing is from the hit of a baseball bat, and how speed may become equivalent to weight.
It is customary to advise beginners to use clubs with very stiff shafts, but I am inclined to think that the reformed baseball-player will do better with a springy driver. With a very stiff club there is an irresistible inclination to hit at the ball, and this is exactly what you must not do. You must be able to feel the club head swinging at the end of the shaft, as though it were really the bit of lead on a string. The instant that you attempt to hurry that swing you throw it out of time and true, and the result is failure. Weight and brute strength may drive a baseball, but for the golf-ball it is speed and accuracy that are needed.
THE "ADDRESS."
Having determined, then, that the stroke shall lie a swing and not a jerk nor a hit, the first thing is to take up our position to the ball, technically called "addressing" it. Clubs are all about the same length, but they may vary in their "lie" or in the angle made by the club head and the shaft. Generally speaking, a tall player will need a more upright club than his shorter brother, in order that the sole of the club head may rest flatly on the ground.
It is a rough-and-ready rule that when the club is placed with its heel behind the ball the end of the handle should just touch the left knee of the player standing upright. Other authorities say that the club should be grounded with its centre and not its heel opposite to the ball. As a matter of fact, the difference of the inch involved amounts to nothing. You want to be far enough away to get in all the power of your swing and yet keep steady on your feet. No one can measure that distance for you; you must accustom yourself to take it without thinking about it.
As for the position of the ball, it should be just in advance of the imaginary line drawn from the left eye over the hands and down the shaft to the face of the club head. In other words, let left eye, hands, club shaft, and the striking face of the head be in the same plane, with the ball a quarter of an inch in front. This, again, should be arrived at instinctively. If you try to measure it by a foot-rule you will be wrong.
The proper position of the feet, or the "stance," is a question about which the doctors disagree. According to one authority, you should stand squarely opposite the ball, with both feet equally distant from the line of fire. Another teacher advises that the right foot should be slightly advanced in the old or "open" style. According to the modern school, the right foot should be drawn back two or three inches. Which is right?
As a matter of fact, good golf is possible in all three styles, but it is generally acknowledged that the last-named position is the most commanding of the three, and it is the one generally adopted by the modern school and the majority of professionals. But it should not be exaggerated, or the power will be gained at the expense of accuracy. The most important thing is that the "stance" should be absolutely firm. The "straddle" should be taken naturally, with the feet neither too far apart nor too close together.
BEGINNING OF FULL SWING.
The proper grip was illustrated in last week's paper. It is not the natural position for the hands when at rest, but experience has decided that it is the best for the swing. In particular the left hand should be well over the club, or freedom of motion is impossible. Get your grip by grasping the club as though you were about to strike a blow straight down upon an anvil, and then swing gently two or three times directly over the ball, describing a flourish that shall resemble an elongated eight. This is called the "waggle," and its purpose is to assist the hands to settle into position. Finally ground the club close behind the ball for an instant, and then swing back for the real business of the stroke. About an inch of the shaft should be left above the grip to give greater command over the club. The thumb may lie along the shaft or be wrapped around it, or one thumb may be around and the other along the handle. In any case the grip of the left hand must be absolutely firm and close so that there may be no possibility of the club turning at the moment of impact. The right hand may be comparatively loose, but, generally speaking, that hand will take care of itself. Finally, keep the left wrist as taut as possible, and remember that every inch that separates your hands on the shaft takes off yards from the length of the drive. Let the arms be naturally bent, and keep your hands low. The end of the shaft should point well below the waistcoat.
Coming now to the swing proper, it is a safe rule not to attempt too much at first. If you watch a professional making a full drive, you will see his body turn and his left heel come well off the ground, while the club will appear to wind completely around him. But if you attempt to imitate him you will soon find yourself in difficulty. Instead of turning your body, you will be inclined to sway it over the right leg; rising on the left toe will throw you off your balance, and you will only be able to get a long swing back by bending your wrists. Now all these things are wrong, and tend to inaccuracy and feebleness. The thing for you to do is to take a short or half-swing back, and trust to practice to lengthen it. It is very important that your up swing should be slow, so that the arms may go freely out from the body. "Slow back," as it is called, is a cardinal principle. Otherwise you are sure to make the swing too straight up and down. Let the swing finish itself out, as the fly fisherman does when casting, and let the return be swift and even. Keep your shoulders loose and your body firm, and as your swing lengthens your body will turn to accommodate it. But it must turn on its own axis, as does a rudder-post, and not sway from side to side after the fashion of a boom. And all the time you must have your eyes fixed upon the ball or you will never hit it cleanly.
END OF FULL SWING.
It is a poor practice to make one or two false swings, pulling up short just before reaching the ball. It is certain to get you in the bad habit of "nipping," or not following through after the ball. This after-swing is fully as important as the first part, although no one knows exactly why. Let the club swing through and with the arms freely flung out from the body.
Make your tees low. There is no advantage in perching the ball upon a pyramid of sand that resembles a chicken croquette, and it will incline you to "top" (hitting the ball above the centre instead of below it) from the ordinary lies of the green.
You will say that it is impossible to remember all these things, and you are right. But if you will read over what I have said with attention, it will help you to understand the few absolutely indispensable conditions upon which good driving depends. Here they are:
1. Stand firm.
2. Don't sway your body.
3. Keep the left wrist taut, and grip hard with that hand.
4. Ground your club close behind the ball before swinging.
5. Swing back slowly, letting your arms well out.
6. Follow through freely, and keep your eye on the ball.
[FOR KATY'S BIRTHDAY.]
BY CELIA CURRIER.
As I walked down the garden path
In the pleasant bright May weather,
I saw two busy robins
A-hopping there together.
They were talking low, with heads quite close,
But still I heard one say—
Mr. Redbreast to his mate—
"Katy's ten years old to-day."
"Dear me! ten years! how very old!
How wise the child must be!
I suppose, now, she could build a nest
Just as well as we.
"You know it isn't much to do,
As you and I have found;
Just lay the sticks, and weave the hairs,
And make it nice and round."
"She build a nest? you silly wife!
I'm astonished at your words!
She couldn't even catch a worm
To feed the little birds!
"She knows arithmetic and grammar,
Can read and write and sing,
But as for building nests like ours,
She isn't worth a thing."
Then the bees set up a humming
In the apple-tree close by,
And I watched them very closely
To see what I could spy.
And I listened, too, to hear,
If I could, what they would say,
And they said, just like the robins,
"Katy's ten years old to-day."
And then they seemed so very pleased,
They said, still buzzing gladly,
"So much to do in this great world,
We need her help so badly.
"We wonder which she would prefer,
To store the sweets or gather;
Because, you know, we'll let her do
Exactly what she'd rather."
Then up spoke Madam Queen Bee,
Clad in velvet, black, and gold—
Her dress was very charming,
But she was cross and old—
"She can knit and sew, I dare say,
And she knows the use of money,
But I'd rather have the smallest bee
When it comes to making honey."
So I left them buzzing earnestly;
They couldn't quite agree
Whether Katy was as useful
As the very smallest bee.
And I walked back to the door,
Where, upon the braided mat,
Sleeping soundly in the sunshine,
Lay the gray old pussy-cat.
Then, tearing round the corner,
Came the kittens, one, two, three—
Black Bess, and Star, and Dicky—
Tumbling headlong in their glee.
"Oh Mamma Cat, wake up!" they cried,
"Hear what we've got to say.
We know you'll be astonished,
Katy's ten years old to-day."
The old cat yawned and blinked,
Stretched herself upon the mat,
Sweetly smiled on Star and Dicky,
Gave Bess a gentle pat,
Said, "She sweeps and dusts the parlor,
And that is very nice,
But she isn't worth as much as you;
You know she can't catch mice."
I laughed a little softly;
It really seemed absurd
That, because she couldn't do their work,
The cat, the bee, the bird,
Should think her worth so little,
When her friends all join to say
They wouldn't part with Katy
For millions such as they.
So, ten happy years behind her,
Six times ten, we trust, to come,
We leave our little maiden
To make sunshine in her home.
That, I'm sure, is better far
(It can't be bought for money)
Than catching mice, or building nests,
Or even making honey.
AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1]
BY MARION HARLAND.
CHAPTER VII.
Mr. Grigsby ate his supper alone that night, having come home very late. The younger children were in bed, the three elder busy with their lessons, when he entered "the chamber." His wife hardly waited for him to be seated and to light his pipe before plunging into the story of the reports.
"Bea's is fustrate, if I do say it—'Lessons very good. Conduct very good.' Dee's was 'Lessons indiffrunt. Conduc' good.' Flea—she says she lost hern on the way home. That's what makes me say what I do say 'bout that child. A-traipsin' 'bout the country 't all hours, an' come to look for the repo't her pa's got to sign an' sen' back to the teacher ter-morrer, 'taint nowhar to be foun'."
Flea did not lift her head during the tirade. Her slate was propped up in a slanting position by a book; her round comb had been pushed to the back of her head, and her shock of hair tumbled low upon her forehead. The terrible test sum already covered one side of the slate. At her father's voice the pencil stood still, although she did not look up.
"If she says she lost the paper, it is true. My lassie never tells a lie."
Flea dashed down the pencil and started up. Her eyes burned like live coals. "Father trusts me! I knew he would. I'll tell you just what was in the old report. It said: 'Lessons good—usually. Conduct——room for improvement!' There was a long ugly dash after 'conduct.' Now you know all there is to tell."
"Well, I declare!" from Bea, and "Did you ever?" from Mrs. Grigsby, were followed by Dee's drawling comment:
"It warn't fair, pa. Mr. Tayloe hates her because she's smarter than him. She's the bes' girl in school."
Flea burst into tears, sobbing so hysterically that her father put his arm about her and led her from the room. In five minutes he was back, and glanced over the table.
"Where is your sister's slate, Bea?"
He took it from her hand, and stood for a moment, running his eyes down the calculation that resembled an irregular staircase, his rugged face relaxing as he marked the erasures and smears telling of a weary fight with the task. He was at the door when Bea's prim pert tone arrested him,
"Mr. Tayloe will ask me to-morrow if anybody helped her, pa."
"I never knew you to be backward in tale-telling," rejoined her father, and went on his way.
Flea was in the dining-room, already half comforted. Her father had listened sympathizingly to the story of her hour's labor over the formidable sum, and encouraged her to persevere by predictions of her final success. He now lighted another candle and established her comfortably on one side of the table.
"I will read my newspaper over here," he said, cheerily. "Nobody shall disturb you. I am sorry to tell you, lassie, that there are mistakes in the work on that slate. I cannot tell you what they are, but I advise you to wash the slate clean and try to forget how you did the sum before. 'Rub out and try again,' is one of the best rules in such cases."
He copied upon the margin of his newspaper the figures written by the teacher before he gave back the slate, and when she had washed it, set down the sum again for her.
"You make prettier figures than Mr. Tayloe does," said Flea, gratefully, laying her cheek against the brawny hand.
She fell to work with fresh zeal. Now and then her father stole a pitying glance at her intent face, but he did not interrupt her. At half past ten Mrs. Grigsby's disapproving visage appeared at the door. Her husband shook his head authoritatively; she shut her teeth down upon the exclamation that was between them, and vanished. At eleven o'clock the premises were still, except for the occasional rustle of the newspaper and the continuous scratch of Flea's pencil. At half past eleven she laid down the pencil and rubbed her cramped fingers.
"Father, would it be helping me if you were to look at it, and tell me if it is right now?"
Both sides of the slate were covered with figures, so childish and unevenly rounded that the father's heart ached at the sight. In reaching the bottom of the second side he smiled and patted the head leaning against his shoulder.
"Well done, lassie! It was a tough fight, but you've won it. I am proud of you, my little heroine!"
He not only kissed her "Good-night" twice, but he went all the way up stairs with her, lighted her bedroom candle, looked to the fastenings of the windows, and, Flea strongly suspected, was within an ace of offering to help her undress.
Poor father! he had called her a heroine just because she had done a sum in long division!
The missing report did not come to light. The next morning being dry and sunny, the children went by the field path to school, purposely to look about the door of the haunted house to see if Flea could have lost the paper there. There was no sign of it. In case she could not find it, she was to give the teacher a note of explanation written by her father. Mr. Tayloe had not arrived when she got to the school-house, and she laid the note upon the Bible that was on his desk, where he could not help seeing it. He read it, drawing his brows together, but said nothing of the contents until the second class in arithmetic came up to recite.
"Felicia Grigsby!" was the first name called.
A subdued rustle ran through the school. By now the children had learned to understand when there was war in the pale eyes.
Flea stepped forward and offered her slate. The pale eyes snapped.
"Whose figures are these?"
"The sum was so rubbed that my father wrote it down for me again," said Flea, modestly and simply.
"That's a likely story. We'll talk more of it presently."
He went over the sum to himself, making a sort of humming noise without unclosing his lips. This "um-m-m-m!" was the only sound in the room. When he read the quotient, he snorted violently.
"Your father is a good hand at long division. You can tell him that I said so when you go home."
She met his eyes full. Slander of her father made her fearless.
"He did not help me to do that sum, Mr. Tayloe."
"Beatrice Grigsby! what have you to say of this matter?"
Bea stammered and blushed in giving the testimony upon which the inquisitor insisted. At last he drew out the admission that her father had sat with Flea in the dining-room all the evening, and let nobody else come in.
There was no color in the face Flea turned upon her sister, but plenty of fight in flaming eyes and working lips.
"Bea Grigsby! you know that father wouldn't have helped me! He only told me once that the sum was not right."
"Silence!" thundered the teacher, bringing down the ruler upon the desk. "What more help did you want than that? David Grigsby, come here, sir!"
Dee stumped up the aisle, settling stolidly into his hips at each step.
"What story do you tell? Your sisters give one another the lie in fine style."
"Flea never told a lie in her life," asserted Dee, sturdily. "Pa said so las' night."
"He has a better opinion of her than I have. How did he happen to say that?"
"Cause ma she didn't b'lieve Flea los' her report."
"Your 'ma'"—mimicking the witness's drawl—"has more sense than your 'pa.' Did you see him help your truth-telling Flea with her sum?"
"No, sir."
"You wouldn't tell me if you had, would you?"
"No, sir."
By the time the dogged reply left his lips he reeled under a crack of the ruler upon his head. Flea cried out once and sharply, and hid her face with her hands.
Mr. Tayloe addressed the school: "This girl has disobeyed me. She has tried to cheat me. She has lied outright. She also, as I believe, tore up her report to keep from showing it at home. She will stand for an hour on the dunce-stool with the dunce-cap on her head. She will not leave the school-room at play-time. She will stay after school for an hour for three days, and do, each day, a sum in long division as long as that her father did last night. The other girls to whom I gave the sum have had the honesty to confess that they could not do it. They will not be punished. They have neither cheated nor lied."
If the child had been as guilty as he said, the punishment would have been extreme. Some of the girls cried silently behind their books; the boys exchanged savage looks in the shelter of slates and atlases. Nobody was amused by the grotesque figure mounted upon a tall stool by Mr. Tayloe, and facing the school, a conical paper cap upon her head. Something in the livid, set face that gazed over and beyond their heads with blank, unseeing eyes, appalled the most thoughtless.
Bea shed becoming tears, and was pitied by all for her sister's misconduct. Dee got a terrible flogging for sulking and disrespect. When called up to recite, he stood with locked jaws and clinched fists, and would not answer a single question. Flea cast an agonized glance at the loyal little rebel as the blows fell thick and fast and his jaws were not unlocked. He would die under the lash, she knew, sooner than cry out now that his blood was up. She had the same in her veins, and she had not shed a tear.
It was a field-day long to be remembered in the history of the Tayloe reign. More lessons were missed through stupidity or lack of study than upon any previous day. During Flea's hour upon the dunce-stool Snail Snead and Tom Carter were thrashed, Emma Jones had a taste of the ruler upon her palm, and six girls were in tears from the sarcastic scoldings dealt out to them. There was no romping or jollity upon the play-ground when Mr. Tayloe went home for his luncheon, and little appetite for the "snacks" brought from home. One and all, the children had been forbidden to speak to Flea, left solitary on the front bench, but Dee sat on the floor at her feet, his head against her knee, like an ailing, devoted puppy.
The hour rolled heavily by, and the afternoon session began. Every lesson recited by Flea during that horrible session was without a flaw. It was not in child-flesh to feign cheerfulness or to appear indifferent. She looked obstinate and sullen. She was mad (in the Virginia sense of the word) through and through. Yet her brain did its work well. She had passed the red-hot stage of temper, and was now at the white heat that often makes the mind abnormally clear.
Two other children had been condemned to stay in, but their lessons were despatched in ten minutes, and Mr. Tayloe and Flea had the school-house to themselves. His watch was laid, as usual, upon the desk, and he glanced at it frequently while writing his letters. Flea busied herself with the sum he had written out for her, the identical sum she had done last night, and, therefore, easy work.
"Have you done it?" asked the teacher, as her pencil ceased its scratching.
"Yes, sir."
"Bring it here!" As he took it he said, rudely, "Go to the spring and bring me a bucket of water."
No girl had ever been ordered to fetch water for the use of the school or the master. It was the boys' business. Without a word, Flea took the big tin bucket and dipper from the window-sill and started to the door.
"Be quick about it!" was called after her.
She sauntered down the hill, insolent, reckless, and dangerous. She had had "tiffs" and tempers often before, but they were passing flurries that left no trace upon character. What had been done to her since she passed this spring on her way to school, less than seven hours ago, could never be forgotten or forgiven. The tinkle of the water into the trough, and the whispering among the grasses as it stole away to lower ground, irritated instead of soothing her. She kicked a stone into the ripples to change the sound, filled the dipper, drained it thirstily, and was about to brim it again, when Mrs. Fogg's wheedling whine made her look around. The old woman was watching her craftily.
"What you doin' totin' water, chile, like a nigger? Who set you 'bout that sort o' work?"
"The Old Harry!" said Flea, deliberately. Her eyes were black and deep; red fire burned behind and through them. "I told you that he lived up there!"—jerking her head backward in the direction of the school-house. "You'd better keep away, if you don't want to be scorched."
The old woman's laugh was like the rattling of pebbles in a gourd. "Lor' bless you, my sweet little lady! I ain't afeard of the Old Harry in broad daylight. They tell me he do treat you mighty mean, and that's a fac'. I wonder yo' pa stands it. I s'pose he daresn't cross the Major. The Major's mighty thick with the teacher. Ah well! the pore was made to be trompled inter the mire of the dus'. Thar's a day a-comin' when they'll have to answer for the deeds done in their bodies."
For the first time Flea detected a false ring in the snuffling cant. She started up the bank, lugging the heavy bucket; the water, plashing and trickling over the sides, wet her feet and ankles and angered her still further. Mrs. Fogg overtook her and seized one side of the handle.
"Lemme tote it fur you, deary! 'Tain't fitten work fur yo' pretty white han's. He mus' be a nimp o' the Evil One, sure 'nough, to let you be a carrier o' water an' a drawer o' wood, this yere fashion."
She was not to be shaken off, and they went together to the school-house door. There Flea nodded her thanks, lugged the bucket with both hands to the head of the room, and set it down upon a bench. She would not offer her tormentor what she had brought, as if she were his negro slave. In her absence her slate had been laid upon her seat. Both sides were bare! In fact, the teacher had found her work correct, and chose this ungracious mode of dismissing her for the day. She instantly concluded that he meant for her to do the sum over from the beginning. The match had touched the powder-magazine of temper. Rising to her feet she surveyed him with desperate eyes. He sat quite erect as he wrote, and worked his month oddly, compressing and loosening his lips, sometimes fast, sometimes slowly. Now he drew his eyebrows together, and then he would smile at what he was writing. He was comfortable and at peace with himself, this natty, prosperous, and powerful little man, whom she knew to be the vilest of the vile. If she thought that the blow would kill him, she would bring her big slate crashing down upon his skull. She could not kill him, but she could injure and mortify him.
"A TORRENT OF ICE-COLD WATER DELUGED HIM."
Quickly and easily she lifted the pail she had carried with difficulty just now. Wrath lent her strength. In a twinkling it was turned upside down upon the head of the unsuspecting writer; a torrent of ice-cold water deluged him, and as she let go the bucket it clattered down upon his shoulders, covering his head like an enormous cap.
It was the deed of a second. In another second Flea had cleared the school-house and was running for her life.