John Henry Smith Read online

  ENTRY NO. II

  MAINLY ABOUT SMITH

  It has rained all day and nothing of interest has happened. The ladiesare clustered on the sheltered side of the veranda. Some are reading,others are engaged in fancy work. The leading topic of discussion is thecoming of the Hardings--or rather a fruitless inquiry as to what gownsand how many Miss Grace Harding will wear.

  They are due to-morrow. I wonder if old Harding knows anything aboutN.O. & G. stock? He probably does--and will keep it to himself.

  There being nothing else to write about I shall write of myself.

  As Chilvers said yesterday, I was born on the farm which now constitutesthe Woodvale golf links. When my father died he willed this land andother property to me. I take it that a man has a right to do as hepleases with his own.

  The old farm makes a sporty golf course, and I cannot say that I haveever regretted my action in signing the lease which transfers its use tothe Woodvale Golf and Country Club for a long term of years.

  I doubt if the two hundred odd acres ever yielded so large an income asI now receive semi-annually from the treasurer of the club, but thisdoes not appeal to my Uncle Henry.

  "It is an outrage," he once said to me, with unnecessary adjectives, "touse the fine old farmhouse, sacred to long generations of Smiths, as anell to a club house."

  He said other things which I will not repeat. He is a banker, and Isincerely hope Chilvers does not hit him with a golf ball. That infernalslice of Chilvers' has already cost me one legacy.

  I have traced my ancestry as far back as I dare, and have a certainamount of reverence for hallowed traditions and all that sort of thing.I must admit there have been times when I have almost imagined that theshades of three generations of more or less distinguished Smiths wereholding an indignation meeting to protest against this golf invasion oftheir mundane haunts.

  Where my great-grandmother once sang over her spinning wheel there hasbeen installed a modern shower bath. The huge old-fashioned dining-room,with its cavernous fireplace, is now lined on three sides with lockers.The place above it which was once filled with the blackened oil portraitof our original Smith is now adorned with an engraving of Harry Vardenat the finish of his drive.

  This picture of Varden's is said to be the best likeness yet producedof this truly remarkable man. I have studied it for hours, but cannotunderstand how he can grip a club as he does without hooking his ball.

  All the bed-chambers on the second floor have been thrown into one largeroom, which is used as a gymnasium. As near as I can make out, the placewhere I once knelt to say my prayers is now occupied by a punching bag.

  The ceiling has been removed, which, of course, does away with theattic, and trapeze ropes now hang from rafters where successivegrandmothers suspended peppermint, pennyroyal and other weeds and herbspossessing medicinal or culinary virtues.

  I confess it does look a bit odd, but it makes a ripping good gym.

  Certain it is that the old farm never looked as beautiful as it doesnow. The cow pasture once flanked with boggy marshes has been drainedand rolled until the turf is smooth as velvet. The cornfields havedisappeared. The straggling stone walls have been converted intobunkers, and the whole area has been converted into a park.

  Old Bishop owns the adjoining farm, and whenever he sees our employeesat work with rollers or grass-mowers he is overcome with rage.

  "The best tract of land for corn, oats or hay in the county!" heexclaims, "and you have made it the playground of a lot of rich dudes!Jack, I should think your father would turn over in his grave. I'd liketo run a plow an' harrer over them puttin' greens of yours, as ye callthem. You've wasted enough manure on that grass to make me rich."

  Bishop does not understand or appreciate the beauties and niceties ofgolf.

  The first tee is under an elm which was planted by the Smith who wasborn in 1754, and who served under Washington. Facing it is the quaintold country church where the Father of our Country has attended manyservices, and in which my parents were married.

  A straight drive of one hundred and thirty yards will carry the lane andinsure a good lie, but a sliced ball is likely to go through a window ofthe church. However, the church is no longer used, and besides there isno excuse for slicing a ball. Some of the members assert that the oldbelfry is a "mental hazard."

  On the second hole it is necessary to carry the old graveyard. A toppedball or even a low one is likely to strike one of the blackened slateslabs. The grass is so thick and rank that it is almost impossible tofind a ball driven into this last resting place of my ancestors.

  It makes an ideal hazard.

  The second time I ever played this hole I lined out a low ball whichstruck the tombstone of Deacon Lemuel Smith. It bounded back at leastseventy-five yards, but I had a good lie and my second shot was ascreaming brassie. It carried the graveyard and landed on the edge ofthe green.

  "It makes an ideal hazard"]

  After carefully studying my putt I holed out from twenty yards, makingthe hole in three after practically throwing my first shot away.

  This ability to recover from an indifferent or unfortunate shot is oneof the strong points of my game.

  The third hole requires a hundred-and-thirty-yard drive over the brookwhere I used to fish when a boy, and on the fourth hole you must carrythe pond. I came very near being drowned in that pond when a youngster,and I firmly believe that this is the reason I so often flub my drive onthis hole.

  But it is unnecessary to describe all of the eighteen holes. The linksare 3,327 yards out and 3,002 yards in, a long and sporty course, thedelight of the true golfer and the terror of the duffer.

  Woodvale is very exclusive. The membership is limited, and hundreds ofthe best people in the city are on the waiting list. Our club house isone of the finest in the country. In addition to the links we havetennis courts, croquet grounds, bowling alleys and other games, but whyone should care to indulge in any game other than golf is a mystery tome.

  We also have bicycle and riding paths, flower gardens and all theluxuries and artificial scenic charms possible from the judiciousexpenditure of nearly four hundred thousand dollars. Nothing can surpassit.

  I live here during the golfing season, and one is unfortunate if hecannot play nine months in the year in Woodvale. In the winter it issafer to go to Florida or California, and I propose to do so in thefuture rather than risk a repetition of last season's heavy snows whichmade golf impossible for days at a time.

  My suite of rooms in the club house is as finely furnished as any in thecity, and the service and cuisine are excellent.

  One saves a vast amount of time by living in such a club house as thatof Woodvale. The hours expended by golfers in travelling between theirplaces of business and the links will foot up to an enormous total eachyear. I remain here and thus save all that time.

  Not that I neglect my business; far from it. Once a week my privatesecretary comes to the club house from my office in the city. He bringswith him letters and other matters which imperatively demand my personalattention, and I sternly abandon all else for the time being.

  On the days when he is here I play twenty-four holes instead of theusual thirty-six or more, but I find the change diverting rather thanotherwise. Without claiming special merit for an original discovery, Ibelieve I have struck what may be termed the happy medium between workand relaxation.

  I do not class the keeping of this diary as work for the reason that Ishall not permit it to interfere with my golf. When I feel disposed tomake a note of an event, an idea or a score I shall do so, but I do notpropose to be a slave to this diary.

  I have just returned from a walk on the veranda. Miss Ross came to me,greatly excited.

  "They are here!" she exclaimed.

  "Who; the Hardings?" I asked.

  "No, their trunks are here. And what do you think?"

  "I would not make a guess," I declared.

  "Miss Harding has only six trunks, and I had seven myself."

&nbs
p; The sweet creature was happy and immensely relieved. I forgot to ask herif any golf clubs were included in the Harding luggage.