"Dear Mother, Darling:"We are here, and I am happy, but so homesick to see you. Do you feel homesick to see me? Let me know. I never thought the world was such a big, lonely place. Is it because you are not with me to hold my hand? I am going to be brave and bite my under lip, and as Biddy says 'Keep a stiff upper lip.' She says half the real truly battles in life have been won by folks keeping up their courage. I don't want to come home, but, mother, if you are passing this way, won't you stop in for a little while?""By that time I shall be cured of this complaint. Biddy says its called himevay. It makes you feel weepy all the time, and when night comes and the lights are out that is the time you feel it the worst. Mother, dear, don't pet little brother too much, because he will miss it like I do when he comes to Camp. I know he is only a little boy now, but if you had stopped petting me when I was three months old I should have got used to it by now and not miss you so much."If I was not so lonely I could tell you about this lovely place, but I have such a lot to tell you of how I feel. Biddy says I might just as well make this a purely personal letter and get the whole thing out of my system. That, she said, would leave me the rest of the season to describe the other things."When the lights are out and from my cot bed I look out of the tent I can see the sky. The moon is way up high, and lots of little stars are shining. Is it the same moon you can see from your window? I hope it is, because you can wish to see me when you look up and I will wish to see you. Then there are so many funny noises. The water seems to be creeping up the shore a little way, then falls back again. What makes it do that, mother? Then some little baby birds keep calling for their mother bird, 'Peep, peep, peep,' just like that. Are they cold, do you think, or are they afraid of falling out of the tree?"Then all sorts of funny little insects keep flying through the tents. Two or three have little lights in their stomachs, because I saw them. They came and crawled over my netting and the light went out, then in again. Wouldn't itbe lovely if we could light our own way like that?"Give father a great, big hug and tell him his big boy is trying to be a man. Kiss little brother for me, and don't hold his hand any more or he will get so used to it. Biddy says if I want to sleep in her room I can, and then I won't be alone. Well, I will try it in the tent to-night, because if you are going to keep a brave front you have got to do it now. Good-bye, mother, darling. I kiss your photo every night. Write soon to your lonely little boy, JIMSEY."
"We are here, and I am happy, but so homesick to see you. Do you feel homesick to see me? Let me know. I never thought the world was such a big, lonely place. Is it because you are not with me to hold my hand? I am going to be brave and bite my under lip, and as Biddy says 'Keep a stiff upper lip.' She says half the real truly battles in life have been won by folks keeping up their courage. I don't want to come home, but, mother, if you are passing this way, won't you stop in for a little while?"
"By that time I shall be cured of this complaint. Biddy says its called himevay. It makes you feel weepy all the time, and when night comes and the lights are out that is the time you feel it the worst. Mother, dear, don't pet little brother too much, because he will miss it like I do when he comes to Camp. I know he is only a little boy now, but if you had stopped petting me when I was three months old I should have got used to it by now and not miss you so much.
"If I was not so lonely I could tell you about this lovely place, but I have such a lot to tell you of how I feel. Biddy says I might just as well make this a purely personal letter and get the whole thing out of my system. That, she said, would leave me the rest of the season to describe the other things.
"When the lights are out and from my cot bed I look out of the tent I can see the sky. The moon is way up high, and lots of little stars are shining. Is it the same moon you can see from your window? I hope it is, because you can wish to see me when you look up and I will wish to see you. Then there are so many funny noises. The water seems to be creeping up the shore a little way, then falls back again. What makes it do that, mother? Then some little baby birds keep calling for their mother bird, 'Peep, peep, peep,' just like that. Are they cold, do you think, or are they afraid of falling out of the tree?
"Then all sorts of funny little insects keep flying through the tents. Two or three have little lights in their stomachs, because I saw them. They came and crawled over my netting and the light went out, then in again. Wouldn't itbe lovely if we could light our own way like that?
"Give father a great, big hug and tell him his big boy is trying to be a man. Kiss little brother for me, and don't hold his hand any more or he will get so used to it. Biddy says if I want to sleep in her room I can, and then I won't be alone. Well, I will try it in the tent to-night, because if you are going to keep a brave front you have got to do it now. Good-bye, mother, darling. I kiss your photo every night. Write soon to your lonely little boy, JIMSEY."
Playing baseball at camp
Afternoon Sports.
After the study period is over the teams go up to the baseball field for a few games. What exciting times they do have! The boys are divided, and for the sake of sport given colors. So instead of New York and Chicago it is the Red and the Blue.
Thus early in the season they are only friendly games. It is only later in the season, when the trophy and cups are to be fought for, that they play with all their heart and soul.
Now it is fun, fast and furious, to see which side is the strongest. Those who are not playing sit around, cheering or jeering as the case may be. It is all good, healthy sport, and again when thebugle blows for swimming they are ready.
What a rush for towels. The water is a little cooler this afternoon than this morning, but when one has exercised so vigorously it seems just right.
Courage comes to the timid. They strike out into deeper water, find that it is friendly to them, and begin to do fancy strokes.
The good swimmers have started a race with other experts. They mean to swim to the island opposite without any stopover, and are watched by an admiring crowd of youngsters.
Care is taken that no boy goes beyond his depth unless he is a good swimmer. Instructors, in boats, constantly patrol the course, watching every move the boys make.
Well do I remember a funny incident that happened to a visitor last summer. He was a grown man, who said he had been swimming in the Bay of Fundy. As a starter he went in where the little shavers go, and, mark you, in about four feet of water, he went down. One of the faculty, who was watching the boys, saw him disappear. He jumped overboard with his cigar still in his mouth, dived under, brought him up, climbed back into his boat, and calmly went on smoking, leaving the Bay of Fundy hero to wade out.
Some of the boys prefer a short swim, then a row; others just spend the entire time on the chutes, sliding down, either head first or feet first, diving, splashing and climbing back to the float, to do it all over again, looking like a lot of Greek gods in their scanty swimming trunks.
How careful one is in the city about covering up the body quickly for fear of taking cold! Out here the greatest pleasure is after the swim to be in the air and let the sun and wind dry and toughen one. No chill, no cold, just a pleasant glow. Any boy who does this day after day cannot take a cold if he tried to all winter. He is immune from the nasty colds that beset one in this changeable climate.
Is it any wonder that the boys love to be in Camp, where they can strip and get close to Nature?
I have often wondered what Heaven is like, and think it must at least have most beautiful rivers, and flowing streams, where one can bathe.
That is my idea of what Paradise ought to be. Of course, there could be a whole lot of things up there that wehave wanted so badly on this earth and could not get, yet for me, the blessed privilege of bathing and swimming in waters pure is celestial.
Maybe the Lord in His goodness took a little bit out of Heaven and planted it in the State of Maine. For where will you go, in this country, outside of that State, and find such a harmonious blending of climate, temperature, water, land, sky and sea as we find there?
But while I am rhapsodizing on the beauties of this State, let me not forget that time flies, and again the bugle sounds the call, "All out."
This time the boys are willing to dress quietly, and spend the next hour resting up after the many duties and pleasures of the day.
There is only a short period between the time we leave the water and the callfor supper. When the first call sounds every boy jumps up without a second invitation from the faculty to get into line.
The signal is again given. The line turns right about face, marches to the stirring music of fife and drum, keeping time and forming one of the pleasantest sights we have to show to our visitors.
emblem of book on stand
Two boys wrestling while the others watch
Evening Games.
After supper sometimes the porch is cleared for a friendly boxing match or wrestling bout. The boys are chosen who in size and strength are pretty well matched.
There is a well-padded mat, and if the wrestlers stand up first they are stripped. The referee reads the rules to them. They are cautioned against any foul or losing their tempers, and then, at the signal, turned loose.
Do they wrestle? Do they tussle? Do they struggle with might and main to put one another down? You try to find out whether they are wrestling according to Graeco-Roman methods or catch-as-catch-can, and decide it mustbe a mixture of both. After a spirited round time is called. Each of them goes to his corner to be fanned in a strictly professional way by his seconds.
After one minute's rest they are at it again hammer and tongs, give and take, like two old-timers, all over the mat, first one, then the other having the advantage. They begin to show signs of being winded, so the referee blows his whistle, and again they repair to their respective corners.
After another minute's rest they stand forth for the final round. In this you see some mighty pretty holds. Were they stronger men probably they would be throwing each other over their shoulders, but, being boys, they can't do that. The last round is declared a draw, and as each won one of the other rounds, there is a happy shaking of hands as they go back to their friends.
The next bout being between larger boys, is more interesting. Here we see two splendid types of young manhood. They stand on the mat measuring each other with their eyes, planning just where to take hold, when the whistle blows to begin.
The referee reads the rules to them, lets them clearly understand that he wants no nonsense. "Go ahead," he says, "play the game fair and never mind who wins."
They take each other's hand, the whistle blows and the fun is on. This is genuine, dyed-in-the-wool sport, this is, and all the boys are yelling their heads off for their favorite.
"Go it, old Socks!" "Give it to him, Chesty!" "Say, what did you let him get away with that for?" These and many more such exclamations are heard on all sides.
How easy it is for one to sit on the fence and criticise the other fellow, to tell him just what to do and how to do it! But what a different proposition it looks like when you try it yourself?
The first round is finished and the boys are sitting back almost as tired as the wrestlers. They are being taken care of by the men appointed for that task. As soon as they are rested, they stand up, for all the world like a pair of young bucks in the springtime, who are eager to lock antlers and so long as they conquer the other fellow, don't care how much damage is done to them.
The second round is called; both boys rush in, each eager to be at the other. This is a most spirited and enjoyable affair. It is first one then the other, until one is dizzy watching them. Such beautiful holds! such daring! such a muscular exhibition, that the boys fairlygo wild, and when this bout is declared a draw, one cannot hear himself think for the racket.
The third and last round is got over in short time. One of the chaps, watching his chance, puts the other down and of course when his shoulders touch it is all over.
Now for the boxing! We thought we had tasted the cup of happiness to the last drop when the wrestling was on, but no, we had not. There was the sweetest drop yet to be quaffed, and we quaffed it alright, alright, that merry evening.
As usual, the very smallest boys were picked out for the first bout; light weight gloves strapped on, the mat removed, the youngsters told what they were not to do and then turned loose.
They put up a manly little exhibition and at the end of the first round it wasonly by a hairbreadth that it wasn't called a draw.
In the second round they went at it a little mite more furiously, and the prize ring rules had to be read to them by the Referee. They themselves did not know whether they were fighting with Queensbury rules or plain Johnson tactics. Just having the time of their lives, it was nip and tuck with them, all around the ring; so much so, that when the whistle blew the round was declared a draw and the little chaps being slightly winded, it was decided to let them off the third round.
The next two to step up for the pleasure of boxing were larger boys.
These were well matched in every respect, both as to size, muscle and grit. We knew they would make good. They were both anxious to please theirfriends, and apart from that were chums. Could two bosom friends come together and try to get the best of each other? That was the thought uppermost in every one's mind. Well, they did, fought like little men, a square, game fight, each bound to win to show there was no queer business; but there were only two rounds fought. Then as each had won one, the boxing bout was ended, to the satisfaction of audience and performers.
But we have other ways of amusing ourselves beside the two I have just mentioned.
The boys who love chess will find partners to play with, and can sit contented, making one and a half moves during the entire evening, if it so please them to deliberate like that.
The checker fiends can play checkers to their heart's content, jumping his menand crowning a man king without half the fuss the usual crowning of kings calls for.
He just sticks one checker on the top of another checker, when he has got to the top row, looks his opponent in the eye, and says "King," then begins to waltz backward and forward up and down, sweeping all the poor little men he finds in his way into the discard. He seems to forget the time when he was only a little man himself. How like live men that is! While some will be considerate of those they have left behind them in the race for fame and fortune, others will step over them or push them out of their way.
That old time game of dominoes must not be forgotten. How many weary hours it has beguiled away! New games may come and new games will go, when we are tired of them, but our pleasantlittle oblong friends from blank blank to double six will always find a welcome here.
Then Lotto. Why, I am anything but a spring chicken, yet Lotto was an old game when I was young. What a hurry and flurry to cover with bits of glass the numbers as quickly as they were called, and what a joyful yell when you were out first!
On warm nights the boys sit out of doors on the Campus. Some one starts up a college song and the fun begins. All the old time and all the new songs. Among the voices a young tenor is heard; he leads, all the rest joining in the chorus.
Such a medley of sounds—the boy who can sing and is willing, the boy who can't sing and wants to; never mind, when one is young everything goes; it isonly when one grows old that one becomes hypercritical.
The night birds cease their songs, so entranced are they at the human warbling. The only feathered night prowler who will not keep quiet is the owl, who persists in joining in the chorus, his part being a question, Who? Who? and then flying quickly away.
These are all innocent little amusements to while away the time until "quarters" sound.
We have other pleasures of a different nature, but those I will leave for another chapter.
"Another evening gone!" you say. "Why, I have done hardly anything at all, and meant to do so much." It is that way every evening. We plan to do all sorts of things, but what with games,songs, feats of strength, spinning of yarns, the time goes all too quickly.
The instructors walk about telling their charges to get a move on. Everybody goes to his tent to undress quickly, plan for another day's fun and frolic; then the bugler blows "Taps" and once more we wrap our covers around us, lying down to peaceful slumber. "So long, Ned." "So long, Joe." "Good night, fellows."
Emblem of book on stand
Bosys with packs heading toward canoes
Camping Trips.
One would imagine that being at Camp was enough for the average boy, but it is not always so. After the first novelty has worn off they want to go around seeing other points of interest. Therefore, the weekly Camping trips are planned for them.
We take one day each week, plan some place for each group of boys, who, in charge of their instructor, go out either for a tramping trip or by boat.
One group, for instance, plan to take boats and provisions, row up stream for several miles, make their camp on some island, cook their meals, rest up, swim, enjoy themselves by exploring the island, returning in time for supper.
The next group plan a walking trip; that is much harder on them than the trip by water. They must carry their own supplies, consisting of all kinds of food, potatoes, bread, meat, eggs, coffee, sugar, milk, matches, paper, fruit, besides a cup for each boy, a frying pan, coffee pot and pail for water.
Here you see the way boys act more than on any other trip. The unselfish chap will cheerfully fill his pockets with raw potatoes, try and roll a can of tomatoes, a pound of butter and half dozen eggs altogether, in his rubber coat; put the matches in his tin cup and stagger away. What does it matter if the can of tomatoes does object to being smeared with the butter or the eggs protest at the undue pressure that is put upon them?
When some one yells at him that a streak of yellow is running down his leftleg he retorts with, "I don't care if it is. Lots of fellows have streaks of yellow, but they don't want to show it."
We clean him up, show him how to pack hard substances together, and the advantage of putting frail objects by themselves; also that butter is apt to melt if stored away inside one's blouse. That crowd is started on its way quite happy, although the lazy boy is grumbling at having to carry the coffee-pot and frying-pan, while the little chap is leaving a trail of potatoes behind him.
Then there is the lazy lot who don't care to walk, and don't want to row a boat. What do they want?
They will take their share of grub and go up to the ball field. Mind you, they demand some of everything, particularly the food that is easy of preparation. The one and only idea that seems to percolate through their brains is to get awhole lot of food; to make as little effort as possible; to help themselves; to fuss over everything; to be on the verge of starting a half dozen times, only to come back again with some new demand, just like people who decide to take short trips, they know not where, just to get away.
For the rest of the day you may be sure that whenever you look up towards the baseball field you will see one or another of that special party about to come down to the house for more supplies, or just to see what is going on.
How much happier they would have been, had they gone with the crowd! Nine times out of ten if you let a boy have his way, he is not satisfied in the end, and then is ready to put the blame on the country, the lake, the faculty, the dog, but not himself.
There was another lot of boys who were always under the impression that the stay-at-homes were going to have so much better time, so much better food, something better than the rest of the crowd, the sort of chaps that are a little afraid of missing a trick.
Their special stunt was to ask the doctor to look at their ears or throat, complain of an all-gone feeling in the pit of the stomach, a slightly dizzy feeling, toothache or cramps.
When a boy really makes up his mind to stay home there is no limit to his ingenuity in thinking up some plausible excuse. It would take a Philadelphia lawyer to get the best of him.
The only way to take care of those poor little, sick, helpless chaps is to have the cook prepare the plainest kind of fare for them. Leave them beautifullyalone and the day will drag along on leaden wings. Long before the rest of the boys return they will be heartily tired of playing sick, and the next camping trip that is planned will be among the first lot of boys to want to go on a long jaunt.
There is heaps of fun in cooking your own dinner. What does it matter if the chicken is scorched on the outside while raw in the middle? The potatoes with crisp skins but underdone in the centre? Corn just warmed through? Coffee hot if muddy? Paper plates? Butter mixed with pepper? Salt mixed with sugar? Water and milk blending beautifully together? Bread and pie in close embrace? Pickles and jam exchanging flavors? As one good little boy said: "What did it matter? Even if you separated them ever so carefully, they were bound to mix up in yourstomach; so if they were mixed up beforehand it saved time and trouble afterwards."
You couldn't serve such a meal as the above indoors. It wouldn't taste right, and it would not look right. It needs the open air, with a background of green forest; a gentle breeze blowing the smoke in one's eyes as you watch the fish frying; the cool water at your feet inviting you to jump in, to cool your fevered brow and wash some of the smudge off yourself at the same time. To say nothing of a crowd of hungry boys who have left their manners and fussy notions at home! Here they can get along without a waiter standing at the back of their chair, without an anxious mother coaxing them to eat the tenderloin, so long as they can see their full share coming to them, they are happy.
I know lots of boys who at home are waited upon hand and foot. Yet these same congenial spirits can work like Trojans when out for a day's sport, can build dandy fireplaces with no better material than sand wet with water and bound with cobble stones.
The same boys can cook a meal fit for a king. I don't mean the King of the Cannibal Islands, but a real ruler, because from what I have read the cannibals are not so very particular. Anything that comes their way, so long as it will make a large, juicy meal, will do. They don't care whether the meal is composed of a real good, young missionary or an old tough trader. They would even take a party of elderly spinsters and cook them for quite a while, adding some extra seasoning.
But these boys I have in mind can cook fish, chicken, potatoes and coffeein a way to make you thankful you are living, both before and after the meal.
After the meal is over the question of washing up comes before the board. Most boys would prefer to throw the whole business in the lake, but, having pledged ourselves to see that they were returned promptly to the kitchen, we cannot allow that.
As usual, there are always one or two who are more willing than the rest. They start in to scrape the debris together, put water on the fire to get hot, and in many ways show that there was lost to mankind a good girl when that boy was created.
No matter where one travels, Nature is charming in her virgin freshness. Then look at the difference as soon as human beings step in. The ground is torn up, the flowers trampled underfoot,trees chopped down, empty cans left lying around, on every side upset, and untidiness! Wouldn't it be nice if we just tried to leave the woods and shore as nearly like we found it, not an eyesore, but a pleasure to go back to again?
Emblem of book on stand
Relaxing by the waterside
Odds and Ends, Including Prayers.
When the days begin to grow hotter and longer most people plan to leave the City. Whether they go to the seashore or to the mountains, to the lake district or some quiet village, they carefully (or so it seems to me) put away their religion along with their winter clothes.
You will find people who are regular attendants at their respective churches all winter long staying away from church, Sunday after Sunday, throughout the summer.
It makes not the slightest difference whether Jew or Gentile, Catholic or Scientist, they all stay away more or less during the summer, and even at Camp, when the call to prayers is sounded, they come in a half-hearted way.
Can one really get along for months without religion? Have they soaked up, absorbed, into their systems enough during the cold weather to tide them over the warm? Can the average church-goer, no matter what church he goes to, store away in his heart and brain enough religion to last, or must he keep on returning to the Fountainhead to be renewed and refreshed?
As I said, the boys straggled in to listen to a true man of God, but some of them came because they had promised to do so, a few just because they really wanted to be there, and the rest because it is human nature to follow a leader.
What excuses we always have ready on hand to show why we have not gone to the House of God! It is too hot, it is too cold, it is dusty, it is wet, no clothes fit to wear, the Sunday dinner to cook, too lazy to get up, all these anda lot more, just because the House of God stands with doors wide open!
You can walk in without the trouble of going to the ticket office for a reserved seat. You don't have to stand in line, glad to buy a standing-room-only ticket. If you desire music, it is there in its purest form for you to listen to. Do you care for singing? Then there you can hear anthems, hymns and oratorios as they never are sung anywhere else.
It needs the sacred silence of the House of God, the subdued coloring, the general air of peace and holiness to bring these things fully to your heart, yet you have to be coaxed to go there.
The House of God has always seemed to me like the house of a very dear friend. Of course, being so far away, we don't think we must pay our respects in person to the Lord. If we have adear friend (even though full of faults) we keep in touch with him, call upon him, let him know in many ways that we are his very dear friend. Then why not go to the House of God for the same purpose, with the same kind feeling in our heart?
Then the boys sat in silence while the man of God prayed for them, for the good of their souls, that they might grow up doing at all times, whether in company or alone, the right thing in the sight of the Lord, blessed them, sent them on their way, with purer thoughts to help them out of the many pitfalls that beset the feet of youth.
After services are ended we allow the boys to play games. Of what use would it be to compel them to sit quiet all day reading books that they did not care for? Besides, a forced religion isn't worth powder to blow it up.
Let us hope that when fall comes and they take their religion (they have so gently packed away in camphor) out it will not show any signs of decay, no moths or other evidences of dissolution, but a bright, loving light to lead their footsteps to His Throne.
Sunday at Camp is much like any other day, excepting that the laundry is given out and the outgoing wash collected.
The boys form into line under the direction of the faculty, are sent down in companies of ten according to their numbers, to the laundry room, where they receive the clean wash, consisting of personal clothes, besides sheets, towels and pillow slips, take them up to their tents, put them in their trunks, excepting what they put into immediate use.
After breakfast they gather up all the soiled wash, make out a duplicate list, and have them ready when the man calls at each tent for them. Quite a clever system that works out all right.
Sunday afternoon is spent on the water or some game is started up. The usual swimming is indulged in, and by supper time everybody is ready to peck a bit of food, even if they have dined later and had a most bountiful repast.
In the evening the fun begins. Generally on Sunday the Literary Society has an open meeting. Everything goes, from a banjo solo to an imitation fight between two noted prize-fighters.
The little boys recite, the big ones give monologues, our celebrated orchestra renders stirring selections, and the entire Camp joins in the chorus.
The instructors cheerfully help out. It matters not what you ask them to do! Sing a solo? Why, yes; he will be delighted. Sing a duet? Pleased to oblige such an appreciative audience. Join in a quartette? Why, nothing would give him greater happiness.
It makes no difference how silly they have to act. They just go ahead. Anything to please the boys and keep them in good spirits.
Were Hammerstein ever to come out to Camp on a Sunday evening he would find more real talent on our little stage than he has at his own vaudeville house.
The evening ends very happily, all voting it a bully good show. They give three cheers for the performers, and with a final cheer for good measure, "Quarters" are sounded.
It is a happy crowd that slowly wends its way to the tents, and many a laugh is heard as they go over the evening's performance.
The faculty clear the place, leaving everything in apple-pie order for the morrow. "Taps" are sounded by the bugler and another happy day is done.
As we grow older it may take more to please us, but I feel confident that some of these days will be remembered long after we have grown up. Life would, indeed, be for many of us a very sad thing if we had not childhood's happy days to look back on.
Playing football
Football.
Why there should be such excitement about a game of football I have never been able to find out. When all is said and done you can hardly see the players. They are bunched together most of the time. They stand bent over, looking for all the world as though they were about to play leapfrog.
Then some under-sized little shrimp of a fellow begins to yell 4-11-44, 7-28-7-11, and all manner of numbers; he grows fearfully excited over the stupidity of his team; they evidently don't understand the signals.
In a perfect frenzy of passion and despair he raises his voice and almost weeps. Sometimes he says things that are not in the polite letter writer; notthe things that a gentle youth would send in a letter to his best girl, but the rest of the team don't seem to mind it at all. The other side is doing the same. They have also a man whose special mission in life seems to be howling with all his might while madly springing up and down.
Again they form and await the whistle of the umpire. Every man acts as though the eyes of the entire sporting world were upon him.
Gee! If they can only get the start; what they won't do to the other side! The whistle blows, one yard gained after a terrific struggle; form again, more numbers yelled in a voice hoarse from much shouting, then they are off again! A splendid kick causing the ball to form a perfect curve as it sails through the air, one great big chap fairly springs up several feet to catch it as it comes down;he runs, and his side, when the whistle blows, have gained five yards. I stand idly watching them, wishing that the game was more familiar to me. It must be a good game, after all is said and done, or people would not go wild about it.
The first half is over. Now the umpire is quite a busy man. Let us trust he has taken out a traveling life insurance policy, for he certainly needs it as he wanders up and down. Each side is filing its protests. If he is to believe them they have each been guilty of everything but piracy on the high seas.
Several boys have been knocked out for a minute. They are being attended to by the surgeon and staff—a liberal sprinkling of water besides massage sets them up again quite eager to join the fray.
The coach calls his crowd around him, scolds some, praises others, warns all to go carefully. The little chap, whose special mission in life seems to be to cuss and yell numbers as fast as he can get them out, is on hand; watches his opportunity to remind them that when he says 8-7-6-5-4 he does not mean 93-2-15; begs them, for sweet love's sake, to go in and win.
The referee blows the whistle. Both sides form. They toss up for the first choice, and off they go.
In spite of one's desire to sit quietly and let them chew each other up like a pack of Kilkenny cats, until nothing but the tails are left, you find yourself yelling, jumping, running along with the rest of the crowd.
"A goal! a goal!" they shriek, and all because one boy has thrown the ball over. Phew! what excitement! whatjoy for the winners! sympathy for the losers! a happy blending of praise and blame!
No matter where you go it is just as bad; that is, in any English-speaking country.
This fall I saw, while in Lincoln, England, a tremendous crowd coming out of the railroad station. They were pushing and jostling each other. Some were packed six deep in cabs, riding in butchers' carts, on bicycles, on tricycles. I had almost said icicles, because they were going any way so long as they got there. My curiosity at last got the best of me, and I stopped a good-natured looking man. "My friend," I said, "what are you all in such a hurry for? Is there a hanging going on, or has England declared herself a Republic?"
He looked at me with a pitiful smile, as though to pity my ignorance.
"No, Madam," he said, "it is a game of football, and they kick off at 2.30," and off he ran.
On this particular day the Reds won, to the everlasting sorrow of the Blues.
Boys are nice chaps, anyhow. Just as soon as the game is over there is not one bit of hard feeling between victor and vanquished. They shake hands, say better luck next time and are ready for the next game.
If we could carry that spirit with us out into the world, what a lot of good it would do us, as well as the other poor soul who has lost in the game of life. At least let us try and give the other chap a fair show, a run for his money, so to say. Then if we do come out ahead it won't matter so much. A kind word, a loving thought, means a lot to the chap who has lost, while to us it affordssome satisfaction to have won modestly, not to fly on the top of the fence, flap our wings and crow like the victorious cock.
Emblem of book on stand
A rowing race
Boating.
Boating has always been a much-sought-after pastime. The boat, even as little children, we were very fond of was one called Noah's Ark. Ours was filled with cute little animals, and trees, and houses, that gave us great pleasure to arrange, always taking care to make them walk two by two, each couple of bears or elephants or cats, or any other animal, never on any account to put a rat with a cat or a tiger with a goat, as we were taught that they had to pair off the right way.
Noah's ark was a good old boat. From what I can make out it must have been somewhat like a present-day houseboat, while the lower half was like a cattle carrier.
Jolly time Friend Noah must have had to preserve order. Of course, the fear of being thrown overboard probably kept them behaving fairly well. Still it must have been a dreary time for all, not like the boating at Camp.
The Vikings with their war vessels manned by dozens of slaves, some of them below decks where they had to sit chained together, plying the long sweeps for dear life—death for them if they failed—death for them at the end always. Poor, poor fellows! I never read about them but my heart aches.
What thousands of human beings have been sacrificed to bring our civilization up to its present humane standard! That was another kind of boating for you.
We can go on and on, down to the present time, and find in every period something to interest, to shock, to awakenour truest sympathy for those who have gone before, but as this is not a history of boats and boatmen, just an account of our outings, I will not digress any longer.
In the beginning of the season we don't care what kind of a boat we go out in so long as it is a boat, but in a few days we begin to notice the great difference between a flat-bottomed boat and a dory, between a canoe-shaped boat and one with bow and stern. The advantages of each and every one are quickly mastered, until at the end of the first week we have pinned our faith to one particular kind, to the exclusion of all others. Then our usual selfishness begins to show. We charter that boat, and woe be to the fellow who takes it.
A boat that you are used to is like a friend. You seem to get right in mood with it, can tell to a second when to humorit, and in return the boat answers to every move you make. If you like a boat and have been out in it, no matter whether the wind comes up suddenly or a storm threatens, you feel perfectly safe. You can take one oar, stand up at one end and make her go like an obedient steed, ride the waves, turn any way you wish, fool around as long as you like, then make a home run up to the dock with flying colors.
You can do that with a canoe-shaped boat, because, if you are turned around by the current, all you have to do is to turn yourself, and either end of the boat is the stern, as you wish. But so much for a rowboat.
Have you ever tried going out in one of those dinky little sailboats? That is Simon-pure sport for you. When the boat is loaded with her living freight sheis probably about six inches above the water line. Any little sudden gust causes her to keel 'way over. Between the jolly captain trying to get the benefit of every puff of wind and the nervous passengers you have the time of your life. All other boating fades away compared to being in a sailboat with just enough breeze to send her along while causing her to keel over at the slightest move. You lie on your stomach on the bottom, letting any bilge water slopping around loose soak into your chest. Of course, you have a swimming suit on. That is advisable, in case you went overboard or the boat turned turtle, a custom our little boat showed a tendency to do on the slightest provocation.
She wasn't the kind of boat that you would have wanted to take a nervous mother out in or any one, in fact, that was not well able to swim; but with congenialcompanions, who could take care of themselves, there was more fun to be got out of that little boat than any in Camp.
Then there were the motor boats; just made for the rapid consumption of oil. Their motto was: "Maximum of oil with minimum of speed," made out of deference to the Standard Oil Company. No man not extremely wealthy could afford to own one of them. Between drinking oil by the gallon and quarrelling with their igniter they were in dry dock for repairs most of the season.
The real pets of the Camp were the four-oared barges. You felt yourself some boatman when you went out in one of them. With a nifty coxswain in the stern to keep time for you, plenty of room to make your stroke, one of the best fellows as stroke oar, there was nota pleasanter sensation going than to go for a good, long row.
Sometimes you caught a crab, that caused some little delay, while you were spoken to in a real fatherly way by the coxswain. Then again you persisted in making your time to suit yourself without any regard to orders. On one side the oars pulled a much stronger stroke than the other side, constantly skewing the boat, in spite of the best efforts of our tiller ropes. About the only time you showed any kind of form was on the homestretch. Then, playing to the gallery, you put your best efforts into every move of your body, going by the Camp to the landing stage in a manner to make even the Oxford and Cambridge crews look up and take notice.
All that was only practice. The real thing that counted was when the raceswere planned. Then the boys began to work, to get up early in the morning for special coaching trips, to train in every way, to leave off all sweets; and when a boy does that, you may know he is in dead earnest, until as the day drew near all they could talk, think, eat and sleep was boat talk.
It is a bad thing to wager on a boat race. Yet what a fascination there is in boosting your own side up. You feel sure they will win. Haven't you with heart, soul and mind urged them on for weeks? How can they lose?
You get out and cheer them along, ready to fight with tongue or fists for the glory of your colors. You know it is against Camp rules to wager; yet in the excitement of the moment you promise to forgive debts if you lose and in every way show your faith in your side.
They are ready to start. With many a cheery word for them you wish them Godspeed, at the same time feeling a perfect hatred, for the time being, for your opponents. Gee! if you could only go along with them to cheer them on the course!
They have started, rowing easily to the starting point. Oh! will they never get there? And yet you have warned them about taking it easy to the starting mark. At last they are there, are turning round; the pistol is fired and they are off. "Come on, come on!" you yell, long before they can hear you. They seem to be working with might and main, but what is that? The other team seems to be getting ahead. No; it cannot be. It should not be. In your wild excitement you fall off the rock you are standing on, pulling into the water a couple of onlookers with you. What does a wetting amount to, anyway?
You dare not look when you get back on the rock again, yet, like some horrible monster that fascinates you, you turn around, to see your beloved Blues a boat's length behind. If praying would help them, they can know that you prayed; if weeping for them would have been of any use to save the day, you had done that, too; what was left but the deepest despair.
The Reds won, and my whole nature felt steeped in the deepest blue.
The villain came up to me to claim his wager, with a grin all over his face, making you think of a huge Cheshire cat.
So ended the boat race I had set my heart upon.