All the bed-chambers on the second floor have been thrown into one large room, which is used as a gymnasium.  As near as I can make out, the place where I once knelt to say my prayers is now occupied by a punching bag.

The ceiling has been removed, which, of course, does away with the attic, and trapeze ropes now hang from rafters where successive grandmothers suspended peppermint, pennyroyal and other weeds and herbs possessing medicinal or culinary virtues.

I confess it does look a bit odd, but it makes a ripping good gym.

Certain it is that the old farm never looked as beautiful as it does now.  The cow pasture once flanked with boggy marshes has been drained and rolled until the turf is smooth as velvet.  The cornfields have disappeared.  The straggling stone walls have been converted into bunkers, and the whole area has been converted into a park.

Old Bishop owns the adjoining farm, and whenever he sees our employees at work with rollers or grass-mowers he is overcome with rage.

“The best tract of land for corn, oats or hay in the county!” he exclaims, “and you have made it the playground of a lot of rich dudes!  Jack, I should think your father would turn over in his grave.  I’d like to run a plow an’ harrer over them puttin’ greens of yours, as ye call them.  You’ve wasted enough manure on that grass to make me rich.”

Bishop does not understand or appreciate the beauties and niceties of golf.

The first tee is under an elm which was planted by the Smith who was born in 1754, and who served under Washington.  Facing it is the quaint old country church where the Father of our Country has attended many services, and in which my parents were married.

A straight drive of one hundred and thirty yards will carry the lane and insure a good lie, but a sliced ball is likely to go through a window of the church.  However, the church is no longer used, and besides there is no excuse for slicing a ball.  Some of the members assert that the old belfry is a “mental hazard.”

On the second hole it is necessary to carry the old graveyard.  A topped ball or even a low one is likely to strike one of the blackened slate slabs.  The grass is so thick and rank that it is almost impossible to find a ball driven into this last resting place of my ancestors.

It makes an ideal hazard.

The second time I ever played this hole I lined out a low ball which struck the tombstone of Deacon Lemuel Smith.  It bounded back at least seventy-five yards, but I had a good lie and my second shot was a screaming brassie.  It carried the graveyard and landed on the edge of the green.

[Illustration:  “It makes an ideal hazard”]

After carefully studying my putt I holed out from twenty yards, making the hole in three after practically throwing my first shot away.

This ability to recover from an indifferent or unfortunate shot is one of the strong points of my game.