Evening Star Newspaper, April 27, 1930, Page 82

2 May 12. Formby is a true championship test of golf by the best of British standards. It looks out upon the sea and is situated on true links- land. The holes at the start and those at the finish are on flat terrain, but most of the course from the fifth tee to the sixteenth green runs among high sand hills. One fairway is in what seems a veritable canyon. There is a green on the homeward half that sits in a crater forma- tion of hills in the fashion of Lake Louise. The American professionals who went over for the championships of 1924, which Hagen won at Hoylake, know Formby well, for it was used in the qualifying tests that year. Hagen may be back at Hoylake in June, seeking his fifth British championship. Whether he wins or loses, he will not be likely to create any impression strong enough to dim or re- place the memory of his triumph in 1924. No one who saw him play the last nine holes in that tournament will ever forget, I imagine, those 75 minutes of tense excitement, shared by 12,000 admiring duffers. It was as gallant and thrilling an effort to make nine holes in 36 strokes as ever a golf gallery looked upon. T was late in a gray afternoon and a fierce wind was rushing inland from the mouth of the Dee when Hagen drove from the high plateau where the ninth tee is placed and walked down into a trough between two waves of rolling fairway to pitch his approach over one of them onto a punch bowl green. When he had sunk his putt he knew that he had taken 41 strokes for the nine outward holes. On his card were three 6s and a 5. Over the hills that surrounded the eleventh green, hills 80 high that they are called the Alps, trooped hundreds of spectators who had been following Ernest Whitcombe, Britain’s hope. They brought the news that Whitcombe had finished with a 72-hole total of 302 strokes. Hagan would have to go home in even 4s—36 strokes for the last nine holes—to beat him. Some one—several some ones, in fact—told Hagen he said and started out to ac- Now, the last nine holes of Hoylake measure 3,640 yards, and when the wind is blowing hard they are about as difficult a nine holes as a golfer may find anywhere on this bunk- ered planet. The wind that afternoon was so strong that a man instinctively bent his head and shoulders down in walking against it. Starting home, Hagen was in trouble on each of the first four holes, but he got the proper And Then He Tells Why—"This Is One of a Series of Humorous Sketches by America’s Leading “Funny Men.” GREAT many people still seem to think that flying is a job only for experts—that flying requires a great deal of technical knowledge and actual experience. (I refer, of course, to flying as practiced with the aid of some con- trivance such as an airplane or dirigible bal- loon, because flying without any such mechani- cal help is still just about as difficult as it al- ways was and is not recommended for the tyro, invented “horseless carriage,” or “automobile,” as it has pow come to be known. I can remem- ber when a man who knew anything about automobiles was regarded pretty much as we now regard any one who understands the Ein- stein theory. Why, I can even remember when my grandmother had erysipelas, but, as that has nothing to do with this article, I shall say noth- ing more about it, except to apologize for ever bhaving mentioned it. I don’t think that I have mentioned it, as a matter of fact, ex that I seem to be getting older, and things do with automobiles. But to return to FLYmGhnoc»nntheeonpuuhdthhgu seems. Anybody can be a flyer—provided, of course, he has a grasp of the fundamental principles of aviation and a good warm leather first, in order that those Ww! Jearn to be pilots can finish quickly as possible and lighter reading. Technical I realize, apt to be a bit dull f and so I shall endeavor to make this as inter. esting as possible by inserting various little anecdoted to illustrate my points, such as, for le, the story about the passenger who fell out of a plane when it was 10,000 feet above Jersey City. I forget at the moment just what and that, after all, is what counts. So much for class “b.” In class “a,” on the contrary, come the men . there are almost THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, APRIL 27, 1930. minine stars will go in quest of the ladies’ championship. Jones, Ouimet, Jimmy Johnston and the rest of the boys will be trying to win the British amateur championship in the last week of May. Most of them have been there before. ‘What Jones accomplished there in 1927, when he won the open with a score of 285—six strokes under the lowest previous winning total since the championships were started in 1860—is not likely to be forgotten so long as St. Andrews has a golfing soul. Nor will it soon be forgotien, there in the gray stome club howse or in the shops of the clubmakers on the other side of the eighteenth green, how bravely Jess Sweetser won the ama= teur championship in 1926, the first Amerjran to win it since Travis went home with his" Schenectady putter. And the Scots of St. An= drews, with yhom golf is as universal as pore ridge, are likely to remember for a long time the sunny afternoon in 1923 when Ouimet squared his match with Roger Wethered by scoring birdies on each of the last three holes. Perhaps some of them still recall that George Rotan of Texas, on a chilly morning earlier in the same week, when the wind was blow= ing down from the snow-covered Grampians, wore five sweaters over his woolen shirt as he drove off the first tee toward the Swilcan Burn. That, too, was a record, and so was the 34 that Miss Collett scored in the first nine holes of her match at St. Andrews with Joyce Wethered in the finals of the ladies’ cham= pionship. No lassie ever had reached the turn in 34 until Glenna did it, nor had many men. F Bobby Jones wins the amateur champion- ship next month St. Andrews will rejoice in his victory as happily as though he were a Scot. “May the best man win” is a genuine feeling that is general in the town where golf was born. Many a Winter’s night in the pubs of St. Andrews when a raw, wet wind from the North Sea is beating on the windows, there is high argument for hours between citi= zens who consider Bobby Jones the greatest, golfer that ever lived and those who hold that Vardon never will have a peer. Old Tom Morris himself could scarcely have known, in the far-away days when he trod the famous links, such adulation as St. Andrews gives to Bobby Jones. He is known and admired by the whole population, the university students in their black and scarlet cloaks, the wise old caddies who have been carrying clubs around the course for 50 years and more, the little chile drem who take their mashies to school along with their arithmetics, the housewives who go shopping with a basket in one hand and a midiron in the other, the clubmakers, the shopkeepers and the fisherfolk who haul in their nets before sundown so as to have a bit of golf before going home. The whole town lives for golf. In getting off the train one may look in vain for a porter, but the chances are that a chap will rush up to where the passenger's valises lay and inquire, “Do you want a caddie, sir?” On June nights, when the sun stays in the Scottish sky until almost 11 o’clock, it is the habit of visitors to St. Andrews not too weary upon the greens and holes of putting to decide the “wee drap o’ whisky” that to bed. —Says Humorist Donald Ogden St tain first (a) of wind “P” and . For example, a good plot ought to know what it is that makes his plane leave the ground and he ought to know, further- of keeping the plane on an even keel (which is called “bundling,” after Lieut. Bundle, who didn’t) and (f) getting back to the ground again as near as possible to the state or country g A EEEEEE At any rate, let us take up the question: “Why does a plane leave the ground?” To explain this, let us imagine that we have a plane “N” that wants to leave the ground ‘M” at point “P,” or, as it is called, the old problem. Now it will be necessary to ascer- Proserpine’s Harvest. By Elizabeth D. Hart. There never has been sunlight for our love, - Nor little winds that make the marsh reeds sing; Nor blue of seas that tilt to blue above; Nor any other simple, shining thing. For us the hushed lament of twilight rain; Lost streets that sigh and stumble through the dark; A frightened moon with storm clouds in her train, And shrouded dawns that never knew the lark. i All that we have is touched by Proserpine. Ouy broken kisses and our fitful tears Are but the pallid harvest from her vine; Lees from her bitter cup, our hopes and fears. Her lonely songs ring through your every vow; Her cypress lies eternal on my brow. - raming or wwering the plane or, by experienced dents have resulted j how to fly higher, but converse evolution. In fact, I annoying situation to or twenty thousand feet doesn’t know how to get the darned thing to stop going up. For this reason, incidentally, it is usually wise for passengers to fill their pockets with sandwiches and bits of chocolate named Mrs. X (that wasn't, of course, her real name) who went through the harrowing ex- perience of almost being eaten alive by several of one’s motor at 50,000 feet meant 8z g | HE T : H i rest is simply a matter of a few weeks or months in a hospital No, flying is decidedly not the difficult thing # used to be. "