Par 3

John D. Rockefeller, as all the world knows, plays golf. Uncomplimentary photographs of him in his golfing clothes adorn every other issue of most Sunday rotogravure sections, and these photographs have started a very silly idea. They have made people think that his golf is a joke. Whenever an old man is holding up a crowded course, putting from one side of the hole to the other, or standing bent in an interminable stance, one golfer will say to another, "Heavens, don't drive, Marjorie! That must be John D. Rockefeller." Last week Mr. Rockefeller gave answer to his mockers. He walked out onto a tee of his course at Ormond Beach, Fla., selected a driver, and chatted for a few moments with a lady. Then he stooped, bowed his head, and struck. The white ball flew 156 yards to the green, bounded exuberantly toward the cup. Mr. Rockefeller shouted for joy. He traversed at a brisk trot the distance that separated him from his putt. The ball, once more obedient, hung on the lip of the cup. He tapped it in for a par 3, cut a caper.