o inform my readers non-resident in St Andrews, that my interesting old
friend the Skipper is no more. He died at the ripe age of 75. Peace to
his memory! Some time before his death, I had what proved to be a final
interview with him, when he rehearsed his queer weird story, adding some
curious reminiscences of his early days in connection with the Links of
St Andrews and his favourite pastime. As they may be interesting to some
of my older golfing friends, I have interpolated them into the rugged
doggerel of the text from the notes I took at the time. He also at the
same time pathetically deplored the unreasoning and obstinate
incredulity of friends who persisted in disbelieving his story, and
suggested, with a view to convincing and converting them, that I should
have some of the more striking incidents in the story illustrated. I
have done so, but alas! his old eyes will never look upon them and
acknowledge the credit due to Mr Bannerman, the clever draughtsman.

At the close of our interview, he also alluded to his precious breeks
with which, in his opinion, rest the _onus probandi_ of his adventure.
It was his intention, he told me, to have them framed and glazed, with
the fateful mark prominently displayed--the date, incident, etc.,
carefully printed--to be made over at his death to the local Museum, and
safe custody of Mr Couttes. It was not every man, he proudly asserted,
who could receive and survive a skelp o' the Deil's tail!

V.F.

TORRINGTON MANSIONS,
LONDON.

A GOLFING IDYLL

Now Skipper frien', come tell me true
What garred ye mount the ribbon blue?
Gude sake! to think the like o' you
Should e'er hae joined the Templar crew!
How you accomplished your conversion
It bangs poor me past comprehension.
No six months gane, a drucken deevil,
You led the ball in waste and revel;
Were staggerin' on destruction's brink,
Selling your very duds for drink.
Now, there you sit, you grim auld sinner,
And tell's the smell o't mak's you scunner,
As mim as howdie at a christening,
Or tinker to a sermon listening;
Weel washed, weel clad, your blue beard shaved
Like Dr Byd's, and weel behaved
As toun-kirk elder 'fore the session--
Speak out, auld man, and mak' confession.

The speaker was ane Jock Pitbladdie,
A golfer good, and decent caddie,
Who, drunk or sober, in 's vocation
Had aye the grace o' moderation.
A souter to his trade, he'd left the toun