The transition from the healthy quiet of Woodvale to the feverish furore of Wall Street was startling.  At times as I stood by the ticker I could hardly persuade myself that it was not a dream, from which I should awake to stroll with Miss Harding across the brooks and green meadows we both love so well.

My prolonged absence from the links created some comment, so I am told, but no questions were asked and I volunteered no information.  I have arranged matters so that it will not be necessary to spend much of my time in the city, unless something unexpected develops.

I have lost no sleep, but my golf this afternoon was disappointing.

I required eighty-nine for the round and lost seven golf balls to Chilvers and Boyd.  This will never do![1]

[Footnote 1:  Note by the editor.—­From the foregoing it appears that Mr. Smith’s stock transactions up to this date have involved a net loss of about $51,000, with a probability of a continuance of the decline during the coming week.  Under these circumstances it would seem that he attaches undue importance to the loss of seven golf balls, which I am informed, may be purchased at the standard price of fifty cents apiece.

Possibly this criticism may be impeached by those familiar with the ethics and peculiarities of golf, a game of which my knowledge is purely academic.]

On the table in front of me stands the finest golf trophy which ever delighted the eye of a devotee of the game.  It is the bronze figure of a player whose mashie is in the position of that valuable iron club at the end of a short approach.  It is the work of a French sculptor, and in design and execution it is nothing short of an inspiration.  The position of the feet, body, arms, and shoulders, the expression of the face and eyes; all these details are perfect.

The figure is twenty-four inches in height and is mounted on an ebony pedestal.

Mr. Harding has given this magnificent bronze to the club, and it is in my keeping, as chairman of the Greens Committee.  It will be presented to the winner of this year’s championship of Woodvale by Miss Grace Harding, and I have posted an announcement of the conditions of the competition.  It is open to all members, sixteen best scores to qualify, and then match play of eighteen holes, with thirty-six for the finals.  The tournament starts a week from Tuesday.

Between watching Wall Street and getting in shape for this competition I am likely to have a busy week.

Mr. Harding called me into his apartments yesterday evening, displayed this gem of a bronze, and told me how he came to acquire it.

“It was the Kid’s suggestion, but I endorsed it in a minute,” he said, passing a box of cigars.  “We were prowling around the jewelry haunts, Grace and I, seeing what she could flim-flam me into buying for her, when we ran across this thing.  She thought it was great.  I looked it over and saw that this bronze gentleman does not hold his club the way I do, and was in favour of letting him wait for another owner.  Then she suggested that it would be a great scheme to buy it and give it to the club.  I thought it over a minute and decided that it might be a good idea, and so I bought it, and here it is.  Now you boys will have to scrap it out among yourselves, and may the best one win.”