become so addicted to the practise-stroke
habit that he makes a series of preliminary manoeuvres before carving a
steak, and he raises his glass and sets it down several times before
taking a drink. His game is the sublimation of caution. It is the
brilliancy of care.

Later in the afternoon I wandered down the old lane which bisects the
links and climbed "The Eagle's Nest," a jagged pile of rocks which rise
on the southeastern part of the course. When a boy I discovered a way to
reach the crest of the higher ledge, fully two hundred feet above the
brook which takes its rambling course to the west. At this altitude
there is a natural seat, so formed by the rocks that those below cannot
see the one who uses this as a sentinel box.

It suited my mood to climb there this afternoon. Lazily smoking a cigar
I drank in the pastoral panorama spread out before me. The old Sumner
road wound as a dusty-gray ribbon amid fields of grain and corn. Below
were the pigmy figures of golfers, grotesque in their insignificance,
striding along like abbreviated compasses.

What dwarfs they were compared with their huge playground; what insects
they were contrasted to the splendid area within the sweep of the
horizon; what microbes they were when the eye wandered from them to the
superb vault of the skies!

I heard the lowing of cattle, and saw the Bishop herd coming over a hill
from the meadows. The notes of a Scotch air, sung in a clear, mellow
baritone came to my ears, and a moment later I saw Bishop's "hired
man," Wallace, driving the kine before him. His cap was in his hand, and
his jet-black hair fell back from his forehead.

I have no idea what impelled me to do so, but I leaned over the cliff
and looked below.

Half-way up the gentler slope of "The Eagle's Nest" I saw the figure of
a girl, or a woman. I keep my eyes on her, and as near as I can
determine she never once took hers from Bishop's hired man. Not until he
vanished in the woods which surrounds the farmhouse, did she move. Then
she turned and slowly picked her way down the rather dangerous path.

It was Miss Olive Lawrence.

ENTRY NO. VI

I PLAY WITH MISS HARDING

I regret that lack of intimacy with the muses prevents me from recording
this entry in verse. I have been playing golf with Miss Harding!

Not until this afternoon did I realise that constant association with
Marshall, Carter, Chilvers, and other hardened golfers has dulled my
finer sensibilit