(MULLION)

  It is the place, it is the place, my soul! 
    (Blow, bugle, blow; sing, triangle; toot, fife!)
  Down to the sea the close-cropped pastures roll,
  Couches behind yon sandy hill the goal
    Whereat, it may be, after ceaseless strife
The “Colonel” shall find peace, and Henry say,
        “Your hole” ...

Caddie, give me my driver, caddie,
The sun shines hot, but there’s half a breeze,
Enough to rustle the tree-tops, laddie,
Only supposing there were some trees;
The year’s at the full and the morn’s at eleven,
It’s a wonderful day just straight from Heaven,
And this is a hole I can do in seven—­
Caddie, my driver, please.

Three times a day from now till Monday week
  (Ten peerless days in all) I take my stand
Vested in some degage mode of breek
(The chess-board touch, with squares that almost speak),
  And lightly sketch my Slice into the Sand,
As based on bigger men, but much of it unique....

Caddie, give me my driver, caddie,
Note my style on the first few tees;
Duncan fashioned my wrist-work, laddie,
Taylor taught me to twist my knees;
I’ve a beautiful swing that I learnt from Vardon
(I practise it sometimes down the garden—­
“My fault!  Sorry!  I beg your pardon!")—­
Caddie, my driver, please.

  Only ten little days, in which to do
    So much! e.g., the twelfth:  ah, it was there
  The Secretary met his Waterloo,
  But perished gamely, playing twenty-two;
    His clubs (ten little days!) lie bleaching where
Sea-poppies blow (ten days) and wheeling sea-birds mew....

  Caddie, give me my driver, caddie,
    Let us away with thoughts like these;
  A week and a half is a lifetime, laddie,
    The day that’s here is the day to seize;
Carpe diem—­yes, that’s the motto,
“Work be jiggered!” and likewise “What ho!”
I’M NOT GOING BACK TILL I’VE JOLLY WELL GOT TO! 
      Caddie, my driver, please.

THE ENCHANTED CASTLE

There are warm days in London when even a window-box fails to charm, and one longs for the more open spaces of the country.  Besides, one wants to see how the other flowers are getting on.  It is on these days that we travel to our Castle of Stopes; as the crow flies, fifteen miles away.  Indeed, that is the way we get to it, for it is a castle in the air.  And when we are come to it, Celia is always in a pink sunbonnet gathering roses lovingly, and I, not very far off, am speaking strongly to somebody or other about something I want done.  By-and-by I shall go into the library and work ... with an occasional glance through the open window at Celia.

To think that a month ago we were quite happy with a few pink geraniums!

Sunday, a month ago, was hot.  “Let’s take train somewhere,” said Celia, “and have lunch under a hedge.”