476 THE AMERICAN GOLFER ¡ ¡ ¡ ALL THE WORLD'S A LINKS. All the world's a links, And all the men and women merely players; They have their stymies and their foozle strokes, And one man in his time plays many games, His skill being seven stages. At first the tyro, Missing and swearing at the little globe; Then the local player, with his brassie And happy golfing face, creeping like snails But willingly toward holes; and then the enthusiast, Teeing the. gutty, with a Highland ballad Made to his partner's wrist shot. Then an expert, Full of Scotch oaths, and costumed in the breeks, Making a gobble; sudden and quick in putting, Seeking a golfing reputation Even in the bunker's pit. And then, the champion, In well-worn outfit, with gold medals lined, With eyes severe, and half shot of the best, Full of advice and match-play instances; And so he plays his game. The sixth stage Shifts into the old and ''has been" golfing champ, With full beard on his chin and clubs on side; His loud, plaid hose, well saved, a mile too wide For his shrunk shank; and his once piercing voice Turning once more toward childish "foreing" pipes And whistles in his play. Last stage of all, That ends this dialectic history Is golfing memories and mere narration, Sans strokes, sans swipe, sans grip, sans everything! —Arthur E. Loeke, in Puck.