'Tis a brilliant autumn day, And the breeze has blown away All the clouds that lowered gray, So methinks, As I've half an hour to spare, I will go and take the air, While the weather still is fair, On the Links. I admire the splendid view, The delicious azure hue Of the ocean and--when, _whew!_ With a crack, Lo! there drops a little ball Which elects to break its fall By alighting on the small Of my back. In the distance some one cries Some remark about my eyes, None too pleasant, I surmise, From the tone; So away my steps I turn Till a figure I discern, Who is mouching by the burn All alone. He has lost a new "Eclipse," And a little word that slips Front his sulky-looking lips Tells me true That, besides the missing ball, Which is gone beyond recall, He has lost--what's worst of all-- Temper too. I conclude it will be best If I leave him unaddressed, Such a melancholy quest To pursue; And I pass to where I spy Clouds of sand uprising high Till they all but hide the sky From the view. They proceed, I understand, From a bunker full of sand, Where a golfer, club in hand, Freely swears As he hacks with all his might, Till his countenance is quite As vermilion as the bright Coat he wears. I observe him for a while With a highly-tickled smile, For it is the queerest style Ever seen: He is very short and stout, And he knocks the ball about, But he never gets it out On the green. Still I watch him chop and hack, Till I hear a sudden crack, And the club-head makes a track In the light-- There' s a startled cry of "FORE!" As it flies, and all is o'er!-- I remember nothing more Till to-night, When I find myself in bed With a lump upon my head Like a penny loaf of bread; And methinks, For the future I'll take care, When I want a little air, That I won't go anywhere Near the Links. * * * * * [Illustration: STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. THE STORK AS HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN.] * * * * * THE DILEMMA OF THE HEADLESS SPECTRE. I've always done my best to please, Then wherefore do they scoff? A headless ghost, in days like these, Is very badly off. Some say, for MYERS we ought to go, And some for Mr. STEAD. I really can't profess to know, For I have lost my head. They come and ask me for a key To life's dark prison cell. Oh, what's the use of asking _me?_ However can _I_ tell? I do not understand the speech Of all these learned men. Wildly I wave my hand at each, Again and yet again.