One might perhaps gently remind the impatient expert that, after all, we long handicap men do serve some useful purpose; they, too, were once even as we are now, and, moreover, without us the spoils of the fortnightly 'sweep' would be distinctly lessened; now and again, also, one of us suddenly 'comes on his game,' and, if it be in a knock-out competition, spreads havoc and devastation among the players with handicaps of under six. I am sometimes inclined to think that the long handicap player gets quite as much, if not more, enjoyment from his golf than does the man who receives only a small number of strokes from scratch. We are not so much depressed when we miss our drive, because it happens to us so much more frequently, and the joy we experience when we execute a perfect shot (and this _does_ sometimes happen) is all the keener because of its comparative rarity. Furthermore, our anguish, when we are 'right off our game,' can be nothing in comparison with that of the skilled golfer who is in a similar condition (and I understand that this happens to even the greatest--have we not heard of Vardon failing at two-foot putts and Massy missing the ball altogether?) I have been privileged to read Mr. Darwin's account of the famous courses of the British Isles, and it has been suggested that the thought might occur to long handicap players like myself that, reading of these fours and threes which figure so frequently, one may be tempted to despair and say, "This is all very fine for the plus man, but what sort of a game could I play on such a course? _My_ low, raking shot will not land me home on to the green; it will, I know, inevitably take me into a bunker--in how many strokes may I reasonably expect to accomplish the hole?" I propose, therefore, under the kindly veil of anonymity, to describe the course on which I habitually play, from my point of view; the scratch man may skip this chapter or glance at it with amused scorn; it may possibly be of interest to my long-handicap fellows, who will, at any rate, sympathize with my appreciation of dangers and terrors unsuspected by the more expert player. The course is, like so many links in the neighbourhood of London, essentially a summer course; in the winter it is little better than a mud heap; we have a local rule which allows us (from October to March) to lift and drop without penalty if the ball is buried--and in the ordinary friendly match the wiser players agree to tee their balls through the green rather than laboriously hack them out of the villainous lies, where they are almost inevitably to be found during the winter months. But in summer it can hold its own with most inland courses; the situation is delightful, the views extensive, and one can scarcely believe that one is not far from the four-mile radius.