I just found this unsigned poem in the “Notes by the Wayside” section of the October 1897 issue of The Golfer magazine (offices at 154 Pearl St., Boston). It’s a little late chronologically, but still timely.
October’s here: I hear her tread,
Upon the hilltops, glad and free;
And also in my weary head,
I have a cold that’s killing me.
October’s here: but I don’t care,
I still get in my game;
I care not for the air so rare
Nor do I look for fame.
October’s here: but what of that,
Why prate I of the weather;
My only thought is now of what
My score’ll be altogether.
October’s here: her robes are red,
And yellow, sprinkled thick with gems;
The summer days have surely fled,
The talk is now of Repubs and Dems.
A month before in the same section of The Golfer:
SONG OF THE LINKS
Newport, Lenox, Lakewood,
York Harbor and Knollwood,
Long Branch, Pomeroy.
Richfield Springs, Saranac,
Seabright, Bath, Pontiac,
Greenwich, New Rochelle.
Bar Harbor, Shelter Islands,
Larchmont, Atlantic Highlands,
How many of these courses still exist?