Some years ago, in a city not very far from here, there was a famous old club. The clubhouse represented the growth years. It was a low rambling structure and from time to time, as was necessary, additions were made until the whole was Topsy-like than the original. Yet the place had lost none of its individuality. Roses rambled along the walls and riotously clambered over the doorways and roofs. Within there was an indescribable charm. It was cozy, comfortable and dignified. Finally, the lovely old place was destroyed by fire, and soon after a massive building was erected on the site. It was planned along the most modern lines and nothing that might go to make the comfort of man complete was omitted, so far as the architect, builder and decorator were concerned. But the old atmosphere was gone. From without, the stone structure suggested to many the walls of a prison or hospital. Within, it was cold in its appearance, vault-like, uncomfortable. Without, there were lacking the roses and honeysuckle, the bees and the humming birds. Within, the hearty salutations and chatter of men, who were thoroughly at ease, were absent.

You may gather my meaning if you are familiar with the odors of an old farm-house, where each passing year adds it mite to the rare perfume of time, not the musty odors of closed rooms, but the blending sweetness of calico, burning apple-wood, camphor, lavender, apple butter, and the thousand sweet breaths of spring, summer and fall, which have drifted in though open windows, leaving behind a subtle sweetness which the log fires of winter do not seek to destroy, but rather mingle their fragrance to a blend of indescribable atmosphere of peace.

As a rule, men who play at golf love the open country and all that it suggests. They leave their offices and the streets of the city behind them and turn to the countryside. Do they want to find there a miniature hotel? Ask them and hear what they have to say.