of my favorite golf companions. Well into his eighties,

But round the old mahogany tree

We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly!

Though some are dead and some are fled

The merry children keep their glee;

They hoard with artless secresy

This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,

And Santa Claus he turns the key

On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the Holly!