Sam Snead groaned aloud: "There's too much of this runnin' around. Hollywood yesterday, Washington tomorrow, back to Hollywood next day. Man, I tell you, when I git enough money ahead, I'm goin' to take things easy. I won't even take a lick at a snake. Some ol' snake comes after me, I'm goin' to say, 'Git along there, snake! Go on now, don't bother me. Go chew on somebody else.' "
Now, in the Appalachian mountain country of Virginia where Sam Snead was born and raised, any man who lets a rattler or a copperhead slither by without taking a whack at it has definitely attained the height of laziness.
Sam Snead spoke of his long-range intentions toward snakes one recent evening in Boston. Sam was very weary at the time. But not too many evenings later, after flying to Hollywood and back and then taking the time to catch up on his sleep, he stood on a bandstand in White Sulphur Springs, W. Va., bright-eyed and bubbling over with high spirits as he happily sang:
"Heart of my heart,
"I love that melodee-e-e-e-e!"
"Sing it, Sambo!" cried the crowd on the dance floor at The Pines, a little nightclub near the celebrated Greenbrier, Sam's home course.
"Heart of my heart," bellowed Sam. "Brings back a memoree-e-e-e-e!"
"That's it, that's it, Sam!" shrilled Miss Ellie, a fine buxom hostess enjoying a night off from the plush Colonial Club down the line. "You're right on the beam!"
The bald-headed man on the bandstand, considered by many of his admirers to be the greatest golfer the professional game has ever known, threw back his head and roared on:
"When we were kids on the corner of the square...we were rough and ready guys...but Oh-H-H how we could har-mon-ize!"