Bancroft School - Blue Moon Yearbook (Worcester, MA)

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44 THE BLUE MOON reports. According to these sages, golf was commonly known as goff, gouf, or gowff, and it came from Holland. Personally, I can see an old Scotch duffer, dressed in plaids and rainbow-hued socks, swinging a crooked stick violently and unceasingly in the air, and menacing the position of a small, hard ball, but I cannot picture a stolid looking Dutch boy with wide panta- loons and clumsy wooden shoes, wearing a smile of smug satisfaction, daintily and gracefully attempting to knock a spherical body about. Somehow, I have always associated golf with Scotland. I don't know whether it is the well- known characteristic of the Scotch towards money compared with our own hatred of losing tees and our tedious searching for balls in wheat fields and other inconvenient places, or what it is. Undoubtedly, a goodly number of the inhabitants of this country believe that the game was invented by some insane creature, who went ramping about, first hitting a ball, then spending hours looking for it. But I disagree heartily with these people. They are unsympathetic. They lack that human quality, the joy of enjoying success. Naturally there must be some failure to make a real success No one can know without experience, the feeling of exultation that one enjoys after accomplishing that which he once thought impossible. If one succeeds in getting a good shot after four or five dubs, his sensation will be like that of seeing the first snow of the season or the first ray of sunshine after a week of continuous rain. I have been speaking of good shots. I meant a straight, lengthy drive, a perfectly arched spoon shot, or an iron shot, cracked out accurately and crisply. But who has ever spent much time on that infinitely important and seemingly insignificant part of the game, putting? Putting fyou aren't required to accept this opinionj is an achieve-- ment. It is the art of accurately and successfully getting the ball in the place it is meant to be: in other Words, the hole. On approaching the green, I am at first overwhelmed with the desire to make good, and be able to inscribe a fat four on the score card. Caddy, my putter. - Round head or straight-edge? -- Straight-edge. you nit-wit. CfCaddies are sometimes so stupid.j 'iHold the pin. I kneel down, get the lay of the land, and attempt to judge the force of the Wind. I spend at least three minutes doing this. Next I place the putter back of the ball, then in front, then in back, then in front again. Now, I must remember Jones' advice - to keep my weight on my left foot: and then I simply cannot forget the advice of Diegel and Burke about following through in a straight line to the hole. They must always be remembered and considered. As I bring back my putter, I experience an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. In my anxiety, I jab at the ball, and finding that I have hit it too hard, I hold my breath, and hang onto my putter as if my hands were glued to it. I am not a bit surprised to see that blasted ball bounce in, hit the back of the cup, and bounce out again. What I say under my breath, and what I say to my caddy I will not record here for the simple reason that many persons could not understand these reactions.

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THE BLUE MOON 43 day off. Then and there I resolved that I would never, never stay in bed on a school morning unless I was desperately sick. BARBARA PIERPONT, 1932 THE POSTMAN THE postman striding up the walk With pack of brown, and treasures rare, Bears notes wherein all joy is told Or friend with friend his grief doth share. His burdened back is bent with toil And weighted down with sealed regards: But recompense to him is given, For friends still send us postal cards. ELIZABETH GARDNER, 1932 FOR YOU FOR you, my one, my only one, I'll raise my voice in song: For you, my love, when all is won, I'll never do a wrong. You are the essence of sweet spring, That luscious time of year, When all the birds of heaven sing, And bring a joyful tear. You are my idol, that I swear VJith strengthened confirmation: You are my soul, I would not dare To utter a damnation! For you, my one, my only one, I'd overcome those dubs: I'd even walk a mile or more For you, my bag of clubs! MARY GARDNER, 1932 - ON PUTTING GOLF is my hobby. I can hold forthhon that subject by the hour, not intelligently perhaps, but with a great spirit which denotes my interest in that ancient game. Great men of knowledge have claimed to know about the origin of golf, but between you and me, I doubt the veracity of their

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THE BLUE MOON 45 Everyone knows Mona Lisa. Let us say that her right eyebrow is unim- portant. We know that is true. But then let us visualize her face minus her right eyebrow. What is the result? She looks like some strange inane creature. Mona Lisa minus her right eyebrow is like a good game of golf minus good putting ability. Putting in itself seems insignificant, but take my advice Cand also that of Bobby Jones, Glenna Collett, Helen Hicks, Billy Burke, and other cham- pions-or any of your favorites-if you prefer their advice to minel, putting is a principal part of the golf game, and without this accomplishment you are doomed to failure. Just add up a decent score with three putts on every green instead of two, and you yourself can see the difference as plain as day. So let your conscience be your guide, and when the last snow of winter melts away, and the first green grass of spring appears, dig out your clubs from.the attic, extract your putter from your bag, and, literally speaking, go to it. MARY GARDNER. 1932 BLACK MOONLIGHT Just a moment from eternity And then away. With you the moonlight glowed Like glimmering day, In soft uneven squares upon the stair, But now it blocks, with harsh intensity, In pattern black, a symbol of despair. THAYER HUNTER, 1932 CONTRAST KKMISS LYNNE to see you, Miss Ann, announced the maid. Oh dear, thought Ann, with grandmother here! Miss Lynne came in quickly. V Oh Ann, isn't Jan in? How too tragic! Damn! Don't tell me she won't be in, because I just couldn't bear it. She's gone to play golf with Father. Curses! I don't think you've met Miss Lynne, Grandmother. I have not, said grandmother, viewing the much painted, very short- skirted young person before her. They shook hands, Miss Lynne unaware that she was the object of surprise and scorn, and blatant in her unconsciousness. Without a word of greeting, she continued her conversation with Ann.