THE APPLE TREE GIRL
went down there on Saturday mornings as often as she could afford it, made the club professional like her by that reasonable, rational method of liking him first, and secured his advice on the many points where she felt herself weak.
"My conscience!" he exclaimed one morning, after he had watched her play a particularly difficult shot. "Where did ye learn that now, I wonder?"
But if he had seen her at home, driving the ball around the old Marlin farm, he wouldn't have wondered. Or if he had seen her playing golf along the country lanes and over the fields on her way to school and back, attended by her Seven Faithful Caddies, he wouldn't have wondered either! Such hazards she had to play! Such shots she had to make! Stone walls had to be considered, ruts, swamps, patches of poison ivy, brush fields, Miss Hawley's geese and Bates' bull—oh, something like
practice—and practical practice—and
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