to lie unmaterialised and worthless in the mind, a pretty thing to think about, but impossible. Once there was a man who made a grand effort to materialise the ideal that he had cherished through many seasons. It was a brassey. Some twenty brasseys had he had made, but none of them was quite the thing that he craved. There was something wanting, and thus his shots had not the sting that they ought to have, or that he thought they should possess. But, so often disappointed, he let alone his search for the ideal for a while, and made good friends with one of the real. But he could not forget the ideal brassey, and it grew more and more definite in his imagination. He would look at it there with a smile on his face as he would be going home in the train, and he would handle it and make with it that long carry against the wind that no club of wood and brass in his hands had ever made. Then he took the professional clubmaker into his confidence, and in odd moments after rounds, in the shop they would sometimes talk of this great club, but neither would venture to suggest that it should be made, though they spoke of it as if it were made. They would pick a new one from the stand, and the idealist would say, “Now, Solomon”--he always called it Solomon--“has a shade more hook than that, and there is a little sharper angle to his nose.” The worthy clubmaker entered fully into the spirit of the fancy, and seriously, and he would answer, “Ay, sor, but Sawlaman wasna made by my apprentice!” Another day the golfer would recount the story of his play at a fateful hole, and of the narrow margin by which a fine long shot failed to clear the hazard. It was a moving theme, and after a moment of silence the maker of clubs would say in summary, “Ay, ay, sir; it was a pity ye no had Sawlaman in yer bag!” Yes, it was Solomon that was wanted, just Solomon.