time to develop or preserve the necessary suppleness of forearm, wrists and shoulders? Swiftness, strength and skill are the sibilant trio of golfing Graces that every votary should aspire to win, and few indeed are those upon whom nature has bestowed them all. Imagine a learned jurist and doctor of civil law strenuously posturing for "the sibilant trio of golfing graces" before "some friendly mirror," snatching a fearful joy while his wife is not looking lest peradventure that "gracious household divinity" catch him smashing a chandelier or even in his golfing frenzy making the friendly mirror see stars. Yet if Mrs. Weir should find the doctor of civil law using her drawing room for a putting green and her household gods for 231 bunkers he might come to realize that "the perfervid summer links" were chilly by comparison. But this astonishing dance before the looking glass which the learned jurist pictures as his own pas seul-has there been anything quite so unconsciously humorous since the lovesick parade of Malvolio admiring his legs. When golf or any other fad becomes an obsession the scheme of the universe must be reformed to fulfill its exigencies and the finger of scorn is pointed at the elegant trifler. You are expected to live up to your blue china. The Ancient Mariner prefers the state of mind of Phyllis, the Pagan, who does not take her fun so hard. By HERMAN SCHEFFAUER Would that his voice were mine, Yosemite! Song of one humble spirit that adored- Thy loveliness is everlasting-born Of hoary æons when the ice-bound force And thrilling suns and stars beheld thy sleep. When first thy glory on my vision fell, The helpless sense scarce grasped the world it saw; Then knew mine eyes the tear of ecstasy, I saw thee when the evening sun, all loth Of pines above the sea-voiced waterfalls, Shot down the sparkling shafts of morning light Gilding thy peaks tremendous with their glow: Ye cliffs and pinnacles that flout the skies, Of domes that drop their torrents like a veil O, would that more than mortal voice were mine, Until my yearning eye with death grew dim! Face Rocks of Nature By BERTHA H. SMITH Clouds pile themselves into fantastic shapes and cast weird shadows on the ground. Trees and shrubs mimic things of animal kind, and rocks assume forms so foreign to their substance that it seems as if only the hand of a master artist could have made them so. There are many people in the world like Wordsworth's Peter Bell: A primrose by the river's brim To Peter Bells, a rock's a rock, a tree's a tree, a cloud's a cloud, and it is nothing more. By them Nature's puzzle pictures remain unread. They will never know, as others do, that mountains, with their crags and peaks and jutting, jagged rocks, are alive with faces and forms of human things. True, these mountain folk are ever trick This is particularly true of the face rocks of Mount Tamalpais. He who has eyes to see can scarcely find a spot on the trails of Tamalpais from which he cannot trace human features in a nearby rock. It is as if a race of mountain giants had suddenly been turned to stone, or the treasures of prehistoric art had survived eocene convulsions. Of these the most familiar are the Veiled Prophetess and the Old Lady of Tamalpais. On a ragged cliff so high that the sequoias of Mill Valley seem like stunted shrubs, the bow-knot of Tamalpais railway a narrow ribbon, and the Golden Gate but a shiny streak, sits the Veiled Prophetess of Tamalpais. Immutable, inscrutable, sphynx - like, the face of the seeress is turned ever toward San Francisco, and only the winds from the ocean may gather from her lips the secrets of the future. OLD LADY OF TAMALPAIS A few minutes' walk from the Tavern of Tamalpais on the trail that cir cles the crest of the mountain brings one to the Old Lady that guards the path where it narrows on a rocky, sheerwalled ledge. The profile is perfect. The seams and creases made by centuries of weather are like lines of care and age in a human face. No one |