Well, we went up there quite cur'us, and we watched him paste the ball, 'Til a itchin fer to try it seemed to get a holt of all. And at last Packsaddle Stevens asked to give the thing a swat, And we gathered round to see him show the stranger what was what. Well, the golfer stuck the speroid on a little pile o' dirt, And Packsaddle swiped and swatted, but he didn't do no hurt. He barked his shins terrific, and he broke his little stick, And when he heard a snicker his guns came out too quick. We dropped behind the cactus, with some holes clipped in our clothes, While the golfer for the sky-line wagged his checker-boarded hose; And when we took home Stevens and three others that was hurt The golf-ball still was settin' on its little pile o' dirt. So we ain't no new St. Andrews, and we hope no golfer thinks He can cut loose here in Cactus with a set of oatmeal links; We go in fer games that's quiet, and stir up no blood and fuss, And down in Cactus Center poker's good enough for us. _From an Old Scrap Book._ WHEN MACLAREN FOOZLED OUT. The links were bright and bonny wi' the tartan and the plaid When the pride o' Skibo village met the best St. Andrews had; The play was fast and furious, and sair the ball was thwacked, And in the final test o' skill one point Maclaren lacked. The caddies stood wi' bated breath, and every face was set, For not a man was in the crowd but had his siller bet; And one lad cried, as wi' his stick Maclaren loomed up tall: "Hoot, mon! now show 'em hoo Old Skibo kills the ball!" The gowlfer lookit at the sky, and then doon at the dirt, And cannily he weighed his stock and loosed his plaided shirt; He slowly planted both his feet, and then replanted each, And dinna doot he swung his arms as high as he could reach. Grim death at just that moment would have been Maclaren's wish, For the atmosphere resounded to that mighty empty swish; His stick flew like a rocket, but, alas! the wo decreed! The ball rolled two feet sickly, when it just lay doon and deed. Oh, somewhere in our bonny land the pipes skirl all the day, And somewhere lads and lassies shout, and men are passing gay; But we are dour in Skibo, and no joy is hereabout, Since the day when, like one Casey, our Maclaren foozled out. _Denver Republican._ THE LOST GRIP. It was a joy to be alive, When I could always see My golf-ball, from a slashing drive, Go soaring off the tee; When, as my lowered handicap Fell ever nearer scratch, I held my own with any chap In medal play and match. Then foozles never made me groan; Then, gripping like a vise, I swung my club; then all unknown Were top and pull and slice; Then all my deft approaches sped Directly to their goal; Then all my longest putts lay dead, Or fell into the hole.