The Black Swans 



care to dwell upon the subject of lost 

 golf balls anyway. Some people like 

 to joke on facts. Very well. Let them. 

 I prefer to forget some things. 



We had been dining at the clubhouse, 

 this night of the cartwheel moon, with 

 George. Know George? He is a Con- 

 necticut Yankee lad of uncertain age, 

 who in his time has worked hard, 

 played some, helped a lot of people 

 and will be here still, I hope and 

 fully expect, golfing, gossiping, dining, 

 laughing, and making one or two new 

 friends each day, until on Judgment 

 Morn they throw him down and force 

 an exchange of his "knickers" for a 

 robe with wings, and make him play 

 with harps, not mid-irons, through 

 Elysian Fields. 



It was about nine o'clock when we 

 started for the cottage through the 

 wood. Some say madness lurks in 

 moon-beams. Not being an alienist 

 I cannot discuss so technical a psychic 

 point. I will assert, however, that the 

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