If you hit it whack on the top,
it disappears in a foot-mark. If you "tak' plenty o' sand," why, you
_get_ plenty of sand in your mouth, your eyes, down the back of your
neck, and the ball is no forwarder. If you strike her quite clean,
she goes like a bullet against the face of the bunker, soars in the
air, falls on your head, and you lose the hole! Oh, Golf is full of
bitterness!
Suppose we play a round. The ball is neatly "tee'd" on a patch of
sand. I approach, I shuffle with my feet for a secure footing, I
waggle my club in an airy manner. Then I take it up and whack it down.
A variety of things _may_ occur. I may smite the top of the hall, when
it runs on for twenty yards and lies in a rut on the road. I may hit
her on the heel of the club, when she spins, with much "cut" on, into
the sea. I may hit her with the toe of the club, when she soars to
square leg, and perhaps breaks a window. I used to try running in at
the ball, as if it were a half-volley at Cricket, but that way lies
madness. However, suppose that, in a lucid interval (as will happen),
I hit her clean. She soars away, and falls within forty yards of a
meandering burn. The hole, the haven where one would be, is beyond the
burn.
I seize a cleek or an iron, it turns in my hand, cuts up the turf, and
the ball rolls half a dozen feet.
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