EVEN THREES
I
Ever since the historic day when a visiting clergyman accomplished the
feat of pulling a ball from the tenth tee at an angle of two hundred and
twenty-five degrees into the river that is the rightful receptacle for
the eighth tee, the Stockbridge golf-course has had seventeen out of the
eighteen holes that are punctuated with possible water hazards. The
charming course itself lies in the flat of the sunken meadows which the
Housatonic, in the few thousand years which are necessary for the proper
preparation of a golf-course, has obligingly eaten out of the high,
accompanying bluffs. The river, which goes wriggling on its way as
though convulsed with merriment, is garnished with luxurious elms and
willows, which occasionally deflect to the difficult putting-greens the
random slices of certain notorious amateurs.
From the spectacular bluffs of the educated village of Stockbridge
nothing can be imagined more charming than the panorama that the course
presents on a busy day. Across the soft, green stretches, diminutive
caddies may be seen scampering with long buckling-nets, while from the
river-banks numerous recklessly exposed legs wave in the air as the more
socially presentable portions hang frantically over the swirling
current.
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