The herald. [microfilm reel] (Los Angeles [Calif.]) 1893-1900, 1898-08-07

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Not only is the west possessed of the
amateur golf champion of the United
States and the woman champion of the
south, and both open and amateur ex-
champion, but the home of the golf poet is
here also. Francis Bowler Keene, himself a
member of the Milwaukee country club and
q player of its golf team, has written con-
siderable golf verse, and Is recognized as
the cleverest of his craft in this country.
Indeed, it is doubtful If this American golf
poet laureate has a peer across the water.
Doubtless the secret of Mr.. Keene's success
is that. besides being practical golfer. he
Is close observer.
The poets verse is sympathetic; there Is
always point to his poems, and they are
far from being without humor and senti-
ment. The three poems here given have APP
peared in Golf" They are good examples
Of his genius.
Too often, alas, has this been the en-
perience of team contestant:
King of the Game
You must wake and call me early,
Call me early, mother dear,
For tomorrowll be the biggest match
OF all the golfing year
OF all the golfing year, mother
OF victory I dream;
For / am to head the team, mother
am to head the team.
There's many a red, red coat, they say,
But none so new a 8 mine;
There's Bob, and Hal, and Jack, and Jim
And Fred-they all are fine,
But none correctly dressed as l.
So sure to win none seem.
So 1 am to head the team, mother:
1 am to head the team.
III sleep so long and sound, mother,
That I'll feel fine as silk.
And III not dine with sparkling wine;
For me, plain bread and milk.
But breakfast must be good, mother,
With oatmeal and rich cream;
For am to head the team, mother;
| am to head the team.
feel that I shall win, mother,
And make the banner score.
I feel that can drive each time
Two hundred yards and more.
Approach and putt I've practiced long;
I'm best in them, deem;
And am to head the team, mother;
am to head the team.
(The next evening,)
If awake don't call me early,
Or at ALL my mother, dear;
For this has been the saddest day
OF all the golfing year.
I'm limp and lame and off my game
No good at all I seem.
was really tail Of the team, mother:
Really tail of the team.
That every line of this poem is full q
truth no one who has followed golf vii
deny:
Two Caddies
Little caddie,
Careless ladde,
With your sunny, smiling face,
Hair so curly,
Like a grille;
Head well poised, unconscious grace.
Cherub ruddy,
AS study
You might pose without fault.
But, my laddie,
AS caddie
You are hardly worth your salt.
See that brownie,
Ugly, frowny,
With head that's like a mopf
That's McGlnty.
One eye squinty,
Ears so long they almost flop.
He is stupid.
You are Cupid;
But he's better than you all.
a lie p,lf
But like hawk he
Keeps that one eye on the ball.
A true golfer becomes much attuched tt
the clubs as he comes to know them and II
they remain long in his poss esson he looks
on them is old friends. He comes to know
the feel of each club, knows Its every mark
and scratch, and can tell instinctively
just how to handle tho club to suit the liz
of the ball. When, therefore, supple sha e
breaks or a. head chips beyond redemption
the golfer experiences a feeling of regret
that Is akin to sadness. Mr.. Keene thus
roices this sentimental feeling:
To a Broken Club
Old club, it's pity you and I must part,
And be no more companions on the field
For you were IdSnlOHtu WIFI master : ART
And worthy for a champion to WELD.
How gladly did my eager fingers grip
Your trusty shaft, so strong and sinewy
And feel that from your rounded toe to tip
No better club ere swept the sandy tee!
How often did the ball, we'll driven, fly
Affair." straight toward the distant, guard
ed green,
Upon the trim and yielding turf to lie.
And there await the brassy's impact
clean!
That sturday shaft of yours for years with.
stood
Unnumbered tests through which we bott
have passed;
For your firm-fbered and well-sea soned
wood
All weaker growths was destined to out.
last.