ns are so many
That you cannot think of any
Realm of science, wit or skill
That is not enriched by Bill.

To relieve the awful strain
Of possessing such a brain
William always used to play
Eighteen holes each Saturday.
But he scarce could see at all,
And he often lost his ball,
Plus his temper and his pelf,
So he made a ball himself,
Which, if it should chance to roam
Out of sight, played "Home, Sweet Home"
On a small euphonium he
Had inserted in its tummy.

Next he wrought with cunning hand
Round its waist an endless band,
An ingenious affair
Such as tanks delight to wear;
And, inside, a little motor
Started every time you smote or
Even when you topped your shot;
And, once started, it would not
Stop, for if it came within
Half a furlong of the pin,
Then it was designed to roll
Straight and true towards the hole.
This is scarcely strange, because
It was bound by Nature's laws,
And a magnet was the force
(Hidden 'neath its skin, of course)
Which, thought he, would make it feel
Drawn towards a pin of steel.

When he practised first with it
William almost had a fit,
For the ball with sudden whim
Started madly chasing _him_!
"That's a game that I'll soon settle,"
William said; "my clubs are metal;
Spoons and other clubs of wood
Will be every bit as good."

Then he found to his dismay
Every time he tried to play
That the ball with sundry hoots
Chased the hob-nails in his boots.
Finally he had to use
On his feet a pair of shoes
Of a most peculiar shape
Made of insulating tape.

So the final test arrives
When once more he tees and drives.
Joy! As soon as he has hit he
Sees it toddling down the pretty,
Never swerving left or right
Till it waddles out of sight,
Plodding through a bunker and
Braying like a German band.

Reader, possibly you'll guess
That the ball was a success.
'Twas in fact a super-sphere,
But--I shed a scalding tear
On these verses as I write 'em--
He forgot just _one_ small item
Which (as small things often will)
Simply put the lid on Bill:
_For the hole proved far too small
To accommodate his ball._

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Best Man._ "'OW MUCH?"

_Parson._ "WELL, THE LAW ALLOWS ME SEVEN-AND-SIXPENCE."

_Best Man._ "THEN 'ERE'S 'ARF-A-CRAHN. THAT MAKES IT UP TO
'ARF-A-QUID."]

* *