John Henry Smith | Page 7

for hallowed traditions and all that sort of thing. I
must admit there have been times when I have almost imagined that the
shades of three generations of more or less distinguished Smiths were
holding an indignation meeting to protest against this golf invasion of
their mundane haunts.
Where my great-grandmother once sang over her spinning wheel there
has been 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 portrait of our original Smith is now adorned with an
engraving of Harry Varden at the finish of his drive.
This picture of Varden's is said to be the best likeness yet produced of
this truly remarkable man. I have studied it for hours, but cannot
understand 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
large room, which is used as a gymnasium. As near as I can make out,
the place 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.
[Illustration: "It makes an ideal hazard"]
After carefully studying my putt I holed out from twenty yards, making
the hole in three after practically throwing my first shot away.
This ability to recover from an indifferent or unfortunate shot is one of
the strong points of my game.
The third hole requires a hundred-and-thirty-yard drive over the brook
where I used to fish when a boy, and on the fourth hole you must carry
the 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 on this hole.
But it is unnecessary to describe all of the eighteen holes. The links are
3,327 yards out and 3,002 yards in, a long and sporty course, the
delight of the true golfer and the terror of the duffer.
Woodvale is very exclusive. The membership is limited, and hundreds
of the best people in the city are on the waiting list. Our