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 Vestured 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. A. A. M. * * * * * "The 'Gunboat' and his manager, Mr. Buckley, lounged out on the beautiful old English lawn among the rose bushes and drank in the sunshine."--_Daily Mirror._ What offers from brewers, distillers, etc., to name the particular beverage which they drank in the sunshine? * * * * * "Sir James Key Caird, the millionaire duke manufacturer of Dundee."--_Montreal Gazette._ His yearly output is singularly small. * * * * * Illustration: THE SEX'S PROGRESS. From "WOMEN AT PRIZE-FIGHTS" TO "WOMEN IN THE RING" SHOULD BE AN EASY STEP IN THE UPWARD MOVEMENT. * * * * * THE PUNCHER'S GRIEVANCE. "You journalist chaps just spoil us," said Puncher Pete, when I called upon him yesterday at his training camp. "You draw us into conversation, stick down our remarks in your note-books, and then make us out to be the biggest boasters on the face of the earth. It's not right.