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."