where 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 the
attic, and trapeze ropes now hang from rafters where successive
grandmothers suspended peppermint, pennyroyal and other weeds and herbs
possessing 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 does
now. The cow pasture once flanked with boggy marshes has been drained
and rolled until the turf is smooth as velvet. The cornfields have
disappeared. The straggling stone walls have been converted into
bunkers, and the whole area has been converted into a park.

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

"The best tract of land for corn, oats or hay in the county!" he
exclaims, "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 like
to run a plow an' harrer over them puttin' greens of yours, as ye call
them. You've wasted enough manure on that grass to make me rich."

Bishop does not understand or appreciate the beauties and niceties of
golf.

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

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

On the second hole it is necessary to carry the old graveyard. A topped
ball or even a low one is likely to strike one of the blackened slate
slabs. The grass is so thick and rank that it is almost impossible to
find 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 which
struck the tombstone of Deacon Lemuel Smith. It bounded back at least
seventy-five yards, but I had a good lie and my second shot was a
screaming brassie. It carried the graveyard and landed on the edge of
the green.

[Il