To see a woman raise a golf club with a jerky, uneven stroke, and come down on the helpless turf with the head of it, as if beating a carpet, has always given me a chill and a sensation of wild rage, but there is something about the way Miss Harding does this which is actually artistic. There are combinations of discords which make for perfect harmony, and it is the same with the little eccentricities of Miss Harding's swing. [Illustration: "There is no law to compel a man to play golf"] The poise of the head and shoulders, the sweep of the arms, and the undulations of the figure seem to take on an added charm from what might be called the "graceful crudity" of her stroke. I do not know why this is so, but it is a fact. I shall never forget the attempt I once made to instruct my sister in the rudimentary principles of the swing of a golf club. She was a pretty girl; bright, lively and graceful, but after I had given her two lessons we were so mad at one another that we did not speak for weeks. It seemingly was impossible to make her distinguish between the back sweep and the follow through. She would persist in coming down on the tee with the face of her club, but at that she made a splendid marriage, and is a happy wife and mother. Miss Harding will make a first-class golf player, and I told her so. "Do you really think so?" she asked, after several swings, most of which would have hit the ball. "I certainly do," I declared. "All that you need is the constant advice of someone who is thoroughly familiar with the technique of the game." She utterly ignored this hint. "My one ambition," she said, with a bewitching little laugh, rather plaintive, I thought, "is to drive a ball far enough so that there will be some difficulty in finding it. It must be jolly to hit a ball straight out so far that you cannot tell within yards just where it is. Do you know," and she looked really sad, "I have never lost a ball in my life?" "How remarkable!" I exclaimed. "I have known Carter to lose a dozen at one game." "Indeed! I think Mr. Carter is a perfectly splendid player," she declared. "I was watching him one day last week. He is so strong, confident and easy in his execution of shots. If I could drive like he does I would be willing to lose a dozen balls every time I played." I changed the subject, and was showing her a new way to grip the club when I heard a step behind us. "Hello, Smith! If you are going out in that buzz-wagon with me, Kid, you had better drop that stick and get a move on." Of course it was her father. No one else would dare talk to Miss Harding like that. To hear him one would think that she was twelve years old, but I suppose fathers can do as they like. "Fix up a ball, Kid, and let's see how far you can soak it," he said. "I am just practising the follow through," explained Miss Harding. "Mr. Smith has told me many things about the correct way to follow through."