ies and deadened my appreciation of the wonderful scenic
beauties of the Woodvale golf course.

Like the fool bicycle scorcher who tears past beautiful bits of
landscape, his eyes fixed on the dusty path spurned by his whirring
wheel, or like the goggled maniac who steers an automobile, I now find
that I have played hundreds of times over this course without once
having seen it.

When I was a boy my foolish parents took me on a tour of the continent,
for the reason, I presume, that they did not dare leave me at home. My
impression of the colossal splendour beneath the vaulted heights of
Saint Peter's was that a certain smooth space on the tiled floor offered
unequalled facilities for playing marbles. I marvelled that baseball
grounds were not laid out in the noble open spaces surrounding the
palaces of Paris, Berlin, and Vienna. The Swiss Alps had a fascination
for me by reason of their unsurpassed opportunities for coasting.

It never occurred to me until to-day that nature had any motive in
planning Woodvale other than to provide a sporty golf course. Miss
Harding has opened my eyes to the fact that it is one of the most
beautiful spots on the face of the earth.

When I told Carter I was to play with Miss Harding, he looked sort of
queer for a moment, and then bet me a box of balls I would not make
eighty-five. This was the only thing he could think to say. He tried
hard to conceal his surprise, but I could see that he was hard hit.

He wins the box of balls, all right. As a matter of fact we did not
finish the round, but I did not tell Carter that. I simply grinned
happily and told him that he had won.

There is no reason why I should attempt to write an account of this game
in this diary. I shall never forget the slightest detail of it as long
as I live.

The night is black as a raven's wing, but I am certain that I can start
from the first tee and retrace every step made by Miss Harding over the
fourteen holes played, and I will admit that it was far from a straight
line. I will wager that I can place my hand on every place where her
club tore up the turf, and can locate the exact spots where she drove
out of bounds.

The day was beautiful, the weather perfect. A few fleecy clouds drifted
across a deep sky. The rich green of the slopes blended into the darker
shades of the encompassing forests. As a rule, the only thing I can
recall after a golf game, so far as weather is concerned, is whether it
rained o