The world of golf is not ready for a great revolution. The fact is that we want as little legislation as possible, but what there is should be good and adequate, and the tendencies and needs of the times should be systematically considered. The best solution to the difficulty, perhaps, would be for St. Andrews to relax a little from its aloofness, recognise that circumstances impose a moral duty upon it, and seek the assistance of a few of the chief clubs, seaside and inland, throughout the country, who among them would form a kind of joint board to which all other clubs would declare their allegiance. We should expect to find such inland clubs in the south as Sunningdale, Woking, Mid-Surrey, and Walton Heath represented on this board, and it would approach all the questions of the time in a progressive spirit and do its best to remove existing grievances. If the Royal and Ancient took the initiative in this matter, it would gain in dignity and respect, and would have the knowledge that it had done its duty. If no such step is taken, if matters are allowed to drift on as at present, then a revolution of some kind is likely. A point too frequently overlooked in these discussions is, that the Royal and Ancient club is in its membership and constitution very fairly representative of golf throughout the country, as is no other club. The rights of its position at the head of the game are, of course, indisputable. WINTER I When the winds blow and the rains pour down, we discover the true worth of the golfer. The game has no season; it allows no right of control to any weather. It is for all places and for all times, and in the law of the links it is clearly set down that he who is playing by strokes for a prize shall on no account whatsoever delay in the course of his round, nor take any shelter, though Pluvius should pour out upon him from the heavens their entire holding of the most drenching rain. If, in defiance of the stern law of St. Andrews, he does so take shelter, though it be but for a minute under the scanty protection of leafless boughs, he is to be visited with the extreme penalty. Whatever his score, whatever the perfection of his golf, he shall take no prize, his card must be tossed aside as worthless, and he is branded among his fellows as he who was afraid, and as more fitted to putt on the hearthrug by the fireside at home in rivalry with his baby boy or girl, than to take part in this now fierce game of men. What is the law for medal competitions is, in scarcely less measure, the custom and tradition in matches. Once he has begun, the golfer with the great heart must finish his game, and generally he does so. Scotland sometimes turns up its nose at the English golf of the towns; but round about London, among all its “effete civilisation,” there is seen in golf, as in perhaps no other game, that some fine British sporting hearts beat beneath starched linen and silken