"I remember," answered the Lieutenant, smiling.
[A BOY'S APPEAL.]
I wonder if grown people who have all their growing done
Remember, as they sit at ease, that growing isn't fun.
One's legs and arms have separate aches, one's head feels half asleep,
But every day, let come what may, at school one has to keep.
And there the teachers never say, "Just study as you please,"
When shooting pains are flying round about a fellow's knees.
Reports say, "Tommy's progress is not what is desired,"
And fathers call you lazy when you're only deadly tired.
You have to learn the things you hate; it almost makes you sick,
There's such a lot of grammar, there's so much arithmetic,
The maps and boundaries to draw, the text to get by heart,
And all the while those growing pains to pull your joints apart!
Now skating, and snowballing, and managing a wheel,
Are very, very different things; though tired you may feel,
You manage not to mind it; the time goes rushing so
That you are interested and forget you have to grow.
Dear mothers and grandmothers, they seem to understand;
All boys should always meet them, bowing deeply, cap in hand,
For they have sense, and don't expect what fellows cannot do,
Though other people laugh and say, it's all the point of view.
But, oh! if grown-up gentlemen with growing safely done,
Would just remember now and then that growing isn't fun,
Perhaps they'd make it easier for boys who'd like to be
A trifle brighter, if they could, but are growing just like me.
Tommy Traddles.
[GOLF ON SHIPBOARD.]
Marine golf is the very latest aberration of golfing genius, and though the new game is but a distant relative of the "Royal and Ancient," its novelty may commend it to those who want amusement on long sea-voyages, and who have wearied of "shuffleboard" and "deck quoits."
It is evident that a ball is out of the question, and in its place is employed a disk of wood about four and a half inches in diameter. A rather heavy walking-stick, with a right-angled, flat-crooked head, is the "club," and serves every purpose from driving to holing out. The holes are circles about six inches in diameter chalked upon the deck, and the links are only bounded by the available deck space, the good nature of the Captain, and the rights of the non-golfing passengers.
Hatches, companionways, and the deck furniture in general serve as bunkers, and the ship's roll is an omnipresent and all-pervading hazard.
As the disk is propelled over the deck and not sent into the air, hitting is useless, and the proper stroke is something between a push and a drag, with the club laid close behind the disk. The player, in driving, stands with both feet slightly in advance of the disk, the shuffleboard push from behind being barred. As the club is virtually in contact with the disk, or "puck," keeping one's "e'e on the ba'" is not necessary—in fact, the best results will be obtained by aiming as in billiards and kindred games. A good drive will propel the disk for forty yards along the deck—that is, if the wind does not interfere by getting under the disk and sending it wildly gyrating into the scuppers. The carrom is permissible, and furnishes occasion for scientific play, but the great sport of the game lies in the skilful utilization of the pitching and rolling of the ship. The disk takes a bias from the angle of the deck, and some impossible shots may be triumphantly brought off—round the corner, for instance. Even in putting, marine golf may lay just claim to the variety which is the spice of (sporting) life. On a gray day the boards will be half as slow again as when the sun is shining, while with any spray coming aboard it is impossible to tell whether the disk will drag or slide.