The Republican., 1936-11-26

fluffy old Scotchmen in plaids and tar
tans, pink-faced and wholesome like an
advertisement for whisky. We used
to notice them knocking a little ball
round the landscape, with a flask in
their pockets. They used to play in
odd corners of the parks and on sheep
pastures near tine city. We didn't I'M
derstand that it was a game. We
thought it was just their way of drink
ing whisky. We respected them for
it. At their age, we couldn't expect
them to stand up at the bar and drink
as we did. They needed air with it.
They could hold more.
Then the women butted in and the
transformation of golf began. 1t
moved out Of the parks and the pas
lures: laid out vast links and built
palaces and let in women.
Now 1t Is all women. Look at any
golf course today, the bright autumn
landscape and the pleasant greens all
spoiled by a bunch Of tubby-looking
women all over the place.
Can they play? OF course not. They
just clutter up the course and spoil the
whole thing: few Of them seem able
to hit the ball, but not really. Any Of
us in the early nineties who played the
real game could have gone out and
pasted thief all over the lot. But they
got into the clubs and started the sex
appeal" stuff and the men went all to
pieces and began to deck themselves
out in silk golf shirts and Imported
neckties, and silly "plus-fours."
Look at couple of these men walk
ing out on the links, with their expen.
sive ties and their soft new clothes,
and their heads prematurely bald as
egg-shells. All men are bald now.
It's the price they pay for being so
much with women. Back in the early
nineties we considered that a bald
man was either a professor or that
he hadn't lived right. We expected a
bald man to be little silly over wom-
en-. Now they are all bald and all
silly.
So out they go to the links. Look
at them! What the HI do they
think they are? Play? Oh, yes, Of
course the poor nuts can play. That's
just the trouble. Nowadays they go
at these "half-games" like tennis and
golf so desperately that they play too
well. There is no fun left in it: only
effort and "sex-appeal."
Back in the nineties we looked on
women as a dangerous drug. You had
to be mighty careful: keep away from
them all you could.
OF course there were odd times of
exception-evening parties and dances,
once in each blue moon-but to 20
round with them every night Good
Lord! The kind Of feller who did
that was the kind who got bald.
Naturally, back in the early nine
ties every young man presently "got
crazy" over girl 1--WE called It that
we knew the right name for it,, and
then he got engaged to her and he
went out with her all the time-float-
Ing round in a canoe under a shadowed
river bank, and picking flowers, and
crooning-in short quite crazy.
But we understood it: the man was
just knocked out for the time being.
Presently he'd either marry the girl or
else she'd throw him over. Anyway
he'd be all right later on-back in the
bar again practically the same as
ever, but anyway quite cured.
The bar, Of course, we had to our
selves. There were no women there,
We could stand at the rail and talk for
three hours on three beers and a ham
sandwich (f1fteen cents the lot) and
never have to think Of our "sex-ap-
peal" at all. Now if they start the
bar again, the women will be right in
1t: they rename everything: they'll
call it a solarium, or herbarium or q
piscatorian. or something Of that sort.
And the men will have to wear little
bar-room shorts and drinking jumpers.
But still what's the good Of talk
ing: you can't alter things: may as
well stop writing: and anyway I have
to 60 out with some women.
@ GStephen Leacock.-WNU Service.