"But what is the use of repining,Where there's a will there's a way;To-morrow our team may be winning,Although your team beat us to-day."—Old Ballad.
A running race
Final Contests—Track Work.
After training for weeks one begins to look for some satisfactory results. It is about this time that the boys who have made a special study of track work, under the guidance of a clever instructor, can begin to feel enough confidence in his work to warrant his entering for the final contests.
Oftentimes the boy with the shortest legs has the keenest desire to enter for the standing broad jump. Is it his fault if his legs have not kept pace with his will and brain? You really feel the truest sympathy for him because he always falls an inch or two short. Again he tries, but no go. How can he help it? His spirit is willing, but his legs too short.
The big boy with legs so long that he looks like an animated compass as he strides along is the next to try.
Now you have pinned your faith to him. If he, with those legs, cannot go in and wrest the honors, then who can? He makes a brave enough start, but jumps so wildly that he falls, scattering the dirt all over without gaining enough inches to speak of.
Next to step forward is a spare-built medium sized boy, about the frying size, with not one ounce of flesh to spare, fine bones, slim little ankles, broad chest, good eye for measurement and plenty of strength to carry him over. His followers have great belief in him and frankly tell him they depend upon his work to gain their side so many extra points.
Sometimes if we endow a man with all kinds of virtues, he will really try and live up to them, if only to show us thathe can make good. Again he will make good because he wants to do so, both for his own sake and ours. This boy was of that type, loved to do the best in his power to oblige his friends and also because it pleased himself.
He made good, as we all knew he would, winning for his side far more points than they deserved.
The excitement grew so that it was necessary to appoint deputy sheriffs to keep the peace.
All morning were the running, jumping, hurdle races, short sprints, long sprints, broad jumps, standing high, hop skip and jump, every jump known to mankind and a lot that are not known.
The only jump that I did not see done was the one we all are very familiar with, viz., "Jumping to a conclusion," and the reason that was not practised was that there was no prize offered for it.
The next event on the schedule was junior running races. All of the little fellows who had ambition enough, combined with wind and muscle, were entered. It is one thing to think you can run a race, but quite another thing to keep on going after the first excitement is over.
All you can think of as you run, run, run, is the beating of your heart, your breath growing shorter, a sharp pain running through the calves of your legs, a nasty stitch in your side, and then the worst and hardest sound of all, the breathing of the fellow behind you. You feel without looking back that he is gaining on you at every yard.
"If you can only keep going," is your unspoken prayer, until you are around the next turn. "Go it, old boy," you hear them yell. You don't know whether it is intended for you or for the manbehind you. Anyway it spurs you on. Why shouldn't you take that yell for encouragement for you? As you turn into the home stretch, the boys who are friendly to you run alongside on the infield cheering and pacing you right up to the wire. Oh! thank goodness, you have broken right through the line, to fall, happy though exhausted, into the arms of your friends.
One race after another is run off during the morning. It matters not whether it is a junior, intermediate or senior race; the same rules and regulations hold good, fair play, no crowding and handicaps where needed. Then at the signal every man to do the best he can, win if possible, never quit unless taken ill, run the race through, even though it is a losing one for you.
In every race there can only be one winner, several who are placed, and therest are grouped under one head and called "also rans."
Whether it is horses or men the same spirit prevails. The horse with grit will go ahead. Sometimes his shoes don't fit. His bridle is not properly adjusted, hurting his poor mouth fearfully and causing it to bleed. His harness is loose where it ought to be tight. Tight where it ought to be loose. The driver is far more of a brute than the beast he is driving, and yet you will see, in spite of all these drawbacks, that horse, with so much grit, such a game sport, that he will come in winning by a nose, though afterwards one can see him being led to his stable with drooping head and limping feet.
The same with a boy. If he has the pluck, grit, gameness, call it what you like, he will go ahead in spite of all obstacles; win if possible, come second ifthat is the best he can do, and if he lose, why, then he will look the world in the face knowing he has done his level best.
Throwing the discus is another manly sport that calls for splendid muscular action, accurate balancing, steady nerves, good eyes and quick action.
This game, old as the hills, is still very popular. Its followers try to play it in both a scientific and artistic manner, taking poses that remind us of Greek gods. There is keen competition between the contestants, and prizes are awarded the winners.
This game might have been handed down from the time of David, who so cleverly put his shot that Goliath was killed, to the surprise and joy of his enemies. Like throwing the discus, it callsfor strength, speed and courage. It is a particularly good exercise for the arm and shoulder muscles, but being rather strenuous, is a game for the older boys, who enjoy it very much. Like all other games at Camp, prizes are awarded for the best record.
Still another of the good old games that is as popular on sea as on land. The only difference is that the rings are made of rope for sea use while of iron for those on shore.
On board ship it looks quite easy to throw the ring over the stick, but what with the motion of the vessel and poor calculation, it more often rolls to one side than makes a ringer.
On shore it is not so easy, either. The ground, from being pounded so often by the iron quoits, becomes powdery, the stake is harder to find as the player findsout. One ringer, out of a dozen throws, would be called very fine playing.
It is lots of sport; good to train the eye for measuring distances, the arms to curb their strength, just as the least little bit too much muscle sends the quoits 'way off, and last, teaches one to have infinite patience.
Like quoits, we play this game at Camp as well as at sea. Compare our dandy big table at Camp with firm floor to stand on with the deck of a ship. You cannot begin to make the scores at sea that you can on land. With the best of intentions you send your board along, thinking it will send your opponents off while giving you an added score. Does it do that for you? Well, not always. Most of the time yours goes off or stays on the wrong square, deducting your score while adding to theirs.
On our table at Camp the chances are better for both sides. We play many a spirited game for fun during the season. When the final contests take place this indoor game, as well as any other one, has its turn. Sides are chosen, the losers dropping out while the winners play each other. When the contestants get down to two men the final game is played. As usual, the winner receives a prize.
For the smaller fry the games of checkers, dominoes, etc., etc., offer a chance to even the littlest Camper to compete and win a prize.
Most of the boys would engage in these pastimes for fun, even if there was not any reward offered, but the promise of some prize always stirs up the indolent and timid boy.
Smaller boys at camp
Visitors.
After the boys are settled at Camp for a few weeks they begin to look forward to a visit from some of their folks. They plan what they are going to do and what points of interest they will take them to, and hope with all their heart, soul and mind that a large box of good things may be sent up for the tent.
What does it matter if they are forbidden to receive such articles? Either by begging, pleading or some other excuse they let the Director know that this is their first offence. They will only eat a little at a time, and divide it with a lot of boys, thus lessening the danger of overeating, and getting the credit of being generous at one and the same time.
Some parents take long trips themselves while their children are with us. Other parents plan to come as a surprise.
When they drive or auto in the first feeling that most mothers have is amazement at the undressed condition of their offspring. As quickly as they can get out of carriage or automobile they hasten to button up the shirt, if the boy has one on, or to plead with him to put one on if his is off. They feel the breezes blow and shiver at the thought of the boys sleeping in such open tents; advise that the tent flaps be tightly closed at night for fear of the boys taking cold.
They seem to think we are a hardened, cruel crowd because we laugh at their fears. It is not one bit of use trying to convince mother because she won't be convinced. So we save our breath for father. Here we have someground upon which to sow our seed. We invite him to stay a day or two; "Peel off," we tell him, and "be a boy again. Go in swimming. Go out in a boat. Try a game of ball. Play a set of tennis. Do a little sprint around the running track. We can offer you a lot more sports if you will stay and visit us," we tell him.
In the evenings we can play shuffle board, have some good music, some singing that will make the cats on the back fence green with envy; then last, but not least, we can have a camp-fire. Have you ever been out in the country and helped build a real camp-fire?
After supper every one is pressed into service to help gather the wood. Little chaps stagger along under heavier loads than they can carry, dropping two pieces for every one they pick up, but never saying die. I just love those little gritty kids.
The bigger boys and instructors carry regular old trees, reminding one of an army of ants struggling along manfully to move their quarters.
One or two capable men, who have the art of building bonfires down to a fine point, stay on the field to receive the wood, pile it up and start the fire going.
That is the preliminary only. Are we going to have a corn roast? Then the juicy ears of corn, two for every boy, are brought up to the field. Plenty of good butter and salt in a large bowl is at hand. The boys, visitors and all, form in line, march past the table, where the supplies are heaped up, receive their portion, and hurry along.
By this time the fire has died down to a bright red glow. The smoke and blazes have stopped, the embers being just right to cook the corn; it is strippedof its silk, then the leaves are carefully put back in place and laid down where it will cook through without burning.
Song, laughter and sport pass the time until a fragrant smell assures us that something is doing. Gee whiz! Strip the leaves off. Butter it generously. Never mind if the butter does run down your arm. Close your eyes and sink your teeth into it.
In polite homes they have corn holders, and dainty little knives for splitting it open so that the butter can soak in, and all manner of helps to make corn eating a dainty pleasure. They can have them in their homes all they like, but out here, under this beautiful sky, dotted with stars like tiny lanterns to show us what to do, give me my ear of sweet corn and let me eat it this way.
Sometimes we have a marshmallow roast, generally a treat from one of ourkind visitors, who may not have even stayed to enjoy it with us.
After our fire is just right we serve out the marshmallows to the boys. This time they have a very sharp-pointed stick, on which they gently fasten one at a time, holding them close enough to the fire to roast them. They say they are delicious, and, judging from the fact that frequently they eat between them all, about 2,000 marshmallows, they must be very palatable. Personally, I cannot vouch for them, as, somehow or other, I don't like them, either cooked or raw, though my friends persist in treating me to them.
Another treat is a clambake and watermelon feast. That we have on the shore. When packed in sea weed, all manner of good things are roasted, including the faces and hands of the good-natured helpers.
Sweet potatoes roasted this way are delicious, and chicken has an entirely different taste than that cooked in the oven. There is something for every kind of taste and appetite, and plenty to go around.
The modest boy is helped to his share, the independent chap is allowed to help himself, while the greedy fellow is held back for fear he will overload and capsize. At last even the boy who is hard to please declares he has had enough. So with a rousing cheer for the kind visitor whose guests we have been, the bugler sounds "Quarters," a welcome sound to us all. Sometimes the visitor asks if he can become a Camper for a few days or a week. He will gladly pay for the great privilege, for such it is, to be a boy again among boys.
It is granted to him; not one extra for him, mind you. He must take whatthe Campers have, the same fare, the same tents, the same beds. If he wishes to join us on these conditions, well and good. Then he can come in and welcome.
From a responsible man of business in the city, in one short night he turns Time back in his flight and becomes again a merry, happy boy, a boy with a capacity for enjoying the simple pleasures of Camp life more than any growing boy can understand.
Hasn't he seen both sides of the picture? Doesn't he know that the plain, clean way of living we have out there is the only true way to exist? What kind of food can give him the satisfaction that this rough fare does? When, with appetite sharpened by sleeping in the open air, enough physical exercise to make his blood flow with renewed purity through his system, he sits at table, henot idly wonders whether there will be anything worth eating, but only hopes there will be two helpings of everything. Like poor, little Oliver Twist, he asks for more.
Such a Visitor will turn to and help the little chaps, will go down to the beach with them, show them how to wash and take care of their clothes, go in the water with them, and take them out in the boats. He acts for all the world like a big, good-hearted brother.
In return there isn't a Camper, from the Director down to the dog, that doesn't adore him, and will at every and any time do anything in his power to make his stay enjoyable.
Our keenest regret is when the day comes for him to leave us. Not alone does he carry back to the city renewed health, strength and spirits, but the happiness of knowing that while he wastaking a vacation for himself he was endearing himself to every one at Camp.
Of course, every visitor is not an angel in disguise. We could not expect that. Some come; keep to themselves, and depart, without having caused one ripple on our surface. Yet we are glad to see them, to do all we can for their comfort, and then to wish them Godspeed at their going.
A few come who are ripe with suggestions for the better way to run our affairs. If it makes them happier to suggest, let them go ahead. It won't hurt us any. When one is sure they are doing the right thing it matters little what other people think. We keep on doing the right.
Watching and learning acrobatics
Last Days.
To some of the boys last days at Camp bring sadness. They are the ones who, having neither brother nor sister, begin to realize how lonely it will be at home compared to the bustle out here. They love their parents, are anxious to see them, glad to get back to their orderly bedroom and to the daintily set table. All that kind of thing is good to look forward to, yet how lonesome it will be. Of course, they will meet at school and at each other's homes, but not be together all day and night like this.
They plan to be at each other's houses as often as possible; to never, never forget each other, and be sure to share the same tent next season.
All the season long the untidy boy has opened his trunk, reached around any old way for anything he might need at that particular moment, found it, slammed the lid down without regard to hinges or lock. Day after day he has done this, never once looking at his list so carefully pasted on the inside of the cover.
Anyway, what would be the use of looking at the list; it will be time when he packs up to go home. Day after day you pick up quantities of clothing belonging to boys who have thrown them around, remind them that they will be short when they compare their list and stock on hand. They don't care, and very often are saucy. So the time passes away until a couple of days before Camp breaks up.
Now is the time for vain regrets. Where is that bathing towel that theyleft lying around loose for weeks? What has become of those swimming trunks? Who has seen the mates of both these sneakers? These and fifty more questions are asked of every one in sight.
Sometimes you find some of your belongings under the tent, some in the bath-house, one or two in the dark room used to keep out the light. Several articles without labels you claim as your own, anything, everything, to help fill that trunk.
Some articles cannot be put in, owing to wear and tear, especially tear. They have gone into the discard long ago. Then, again, some have been borrowed and never returned. The average Camper does not think that "he who goes a-borrowing 'goes a-sorrowing," and cheerfully asks for what he wants, letting the lender do the sorrowing at the end of the season.
The careful boy can pack his trunk, find almost all his clothes and bats, balls, Kodaks, etc., etc., can even close his trunk without the aid of the locksmith. There are more tidy than untidy boys, for which may we be truly thankful.
Along about the time everybody is packing up the boys, who have brought along or bought while in Camp a felt hat, want to have all their friends write their names on it. Some of them are works of art, and one feels quite proud to put his name on, to be in company with so many celebrated signatures.
Often have I wondered what they do with them when they get home. Suppose they hang them up on the walls of their bedrooms as trophies.
After you have written on his hat, very often you write in some book for him. About half the Camp is writing on eachother's hats, pants or books. Everywhere you go you will see boys armed with pens, making you think of the old saying about the pen being mightier than the sword.
A general resting up for everybody is advocated after the final contests. That gives one a chance to relax and rest up before going home.
Lessons are stopped; the hour being devoted to siesta instead.
Boys who have all the season neglected their letter-writing tasks begin to get very busy. You will be besieged by requests for paper, envelopes and stamps. They intend letting the family know they are coming.
The boy who during the entire season has sent a blank piece of paper in his envelope, by that means assuring them that no news is good news, now undertakesto write a real letter to apprise them of his return. This so frightens the family that they send a despatch asking if all's well.
The little boys are all very anxious to be met at the depot, also to remind the folks to have a good breakfast ready.
Home-coming always seems sweeter if there is some one to meet us, but we cannot all have loving fathers, devoted mothers, affectionate aunts, sisters or cousins. So the boy who has no one to meet him is not left all alone, but is personally seen to his home or train, as the case may be.
Music and song, games and jollity pass the time every evening until a few nights before the end. Then our celebrated artists give a show.
Whatever we should do without some of our friends I cannot say. What cheerfulspirits they bring to bear! How willing they are to do any and every thing, from painting the scenery to painting their own faces!
We can call upon them at any time for help, tell them "You must be a villain, a hero, a lover, a drummer." No matter what we ask for, some of them are ready and willing.
The show cannot fail, the critics who sit in front, and who are more to be dreaded than Alan Dale or Acton Davis, only spur us on to do the best that is in us. We have rehearsed over and over again until those who haven't clean forgot every word are letter perfect.
Sometimes the villain will make a better hero. All right, we give him that role. Again the heroine would look better as the father. That is easily managed. Change clothes and you change sex at the same time.
Nothing daunts us. We would not enjoy the show half so much if all were smooth sailing.
The night arrives at last to give it; you really would not think these were all city boys, who were used to everything from grand opera to vaudeville. So eager are they to help, to advise, to get the best seats, that tremendous excitement prevails all over Camp.
It is rather hard to dress a group of actors and actresses when your principal stock in trade consists of two rolls of crepe paper, some puffs of artificial hair and a few ribbons. Makes one think of "a rag and a bone and a hank of hair."
We have the rags and the hank of hair, and the boys furnish the bones. We manage with the aid of tinfoil, crepe paper and odds and ends of our personal wardrobe to make quite a decent showing.
The show goes off without any hitch. Everybody is good-natured; the critics assure us it was very good, and we clean up the mess, very happy to have been of service once more.
With a vote of thanks to all the willing workers who helped us, the boys once more are glad to obey the bugler when he sounds "Quarters."
They undress quickly, not at all minding going to bed with faces covered with grease, paint or charcoal. Youth does not bother about its complexion. By morning most of it is on the pillow slip, and soap and water will clean up the rest.
The theatrical effects are all carefully packed away, to do duty for another season. The lamps are put out, the curtain rolled up, scenery stored and finis written on the season's offerings.
Lots of work. Lots of worry. Little to do with. Plenty of people to please, and yet! What pleasure in pleasing others! How happy if only they were satisfied! Could I have my choice, in all sincerity, give me the chance to please the children and I could die happy.
The bugler is blowing "Taps." The lights are going out. Once more a sweet good-night to you.
Emblem of book on stand
Boy with trophy, another boy with smaller boy on his shoulders
Awarding Prizes.
Every season it is just the same. As the last night draws near there is great excitement among all the boys. Those who have earned medals, cups or prizes try to appear unconcerned, while the rest of the Campers handle, fondle and criticise the gifts.
We ourselves, who expect none, and wouldn't know what to do with a medal if one was given to us, are just as eager and joyful as the smallest Camper there.
When all is ready, what a hush! You can actually hear yourself think as the Director stands up. He looks around with happy smile at the roomful of waiting boys. Begins to read from a list in his hand the name of some one fortunatefellow, who steps forward to receive his medal or cup, as the case may be. Everybody must see it, read the inscription, look at the engraving, look at the case to hold it, before returning it to the winner and owner.
It is the same with each and every boy, whether the medal is of gold, silver or bronze, whether he received it for swimming or rowing, for running or jumping, for feats of strength, like putting the shot or throwing the discus. What matter if it was for football or baseball, tennis or diving? It is a medal, given for merit, and as such appreciated by both winner and friends.
The most popular boy is awarded. The best all-around Camper is medalled. There is hardly an act of courage or endurance that is passed by without some recognition. Such an uproar as greets each new hero!
While we enjoy it with them ever so much, yet we are glad when at last they are all awarded, leaving us the pleasure of hearing the different members of the faculty called upon. The bashful man hardly gets a chance. He is guyed until he sits down. Indeed, there seems to be an understanding between all the boys not to allow any of the faculty to speak. It is one huge laugh from start to finish.
Time after time another man is called upon to rise and express his opinions, or, if he wishes, thank the boys for being so good to him during the season. It's no go. He might just as well sit down and save his breath to cool his porridge.
The rest of the evening is given up to yelling, shouting, singing and having a generally jolly time.
Boys who are very wise have taken the precaution to lock all their belongingsup. Fear of burglars? No! A general rough house is looked for on this last night. For fun they will dump each other's trunks or beds.
No one's property is sacred. You can carefully lock your door, but if there is a crevice large enough to let a spider in they will crawl through that, turn your room upside down, not leaving one article in its place, then crawl out again, leaving both door and window locked. How could they have gotten in? No one can tell.
We have serious thoughts of bidding for a turret from some battleship and using that as a room. Nothing lighter would be of any use. It is long after the usual hour for "Taps" to sound, and we wonder why. The bugler is there, but no bugle is to be found. Some boy has hidden it. So on this, our last night in Camp we have to depend upon the instructors,who collect their boys, march them to their tents and stay there, keeping them company while they undress.
Most of them are really too tired to try any games on the other tents, and without any of the trouble we had anticipated they are very soon ready for the signal. As "Taps" cannot be blown the whistle in the hands of the Director is made to take its place.
One shrill blast and the lights go out. "Good-night fellows, lots of fun going home to-morrow."
Book on stand
Loading up the wagon
Leaving Camp.
Bright and early they are all up and dressed, only as anxious to be off as they were to get here the beginning of the season.
Long before there is any possibility of the wagons coming for them they stand, looking up the road, like sister Anne in the story of Bluebeard.
Some of them are really ready. Most of them are not. It is always at the last moment that one finds most important articles that ought to have been snugly stowed away in the bottom of the trunks, lying under the bed.
One boy is stuffing all his soiled clothes in his rubber boots. Not such a bad idea. You cannot make rubberboots go into a tiny little place, so may as well fill them up.
Another is tearing everything out of his trunk to repack it, having found that there is no room on top for his blankets. Still another solves his problem by throwing away everything he thinks he won't need for the winter. Whether that suits his parents as well as it does him history sayeth not.
How the average mother is able to put such quantities of clothes and shoes and sporting goods in that same trunk before it left home and have room to spare has always been a mystery to him. Maybe if the mothers were to let the boy himself do his packing, while they looked on, it would teach the boy a good practical lesson, and at the end of the season prevent many a heartache.
By the time breakfast is over the wagons begin to arrive. Those who areready make a wild dash for the best-looking rig. "But not so quick, my friend. You may as well climb out and wait for your instructors, who are going along with you. No need of crowding. There is plenty of room for all."
Are they really so anxious to be off, or is it just the last bit of Camp frolic? At the same time, from previous experience, my advice is to take it easy up to a certain point. On this, our last day in Camp don't let us neglect one thing that we ought to do for the good of the Camp, and yet while we are putting everything in place, locking up all the articles that ought to be locked, at the same time you help half a hundred boys to get their belongings together.
Tie one of the little boy's shoe laces, lend another one a collar button, give a safety pin to another, find a lost hat for a third, put a bandage on a fourth, closeup bags, open trunks, strap suit cases, fetch, carry and help anywhere, any one, anybody. Of course, you are going to do all this. In your inmost heart you hope you will be able to take one farewell swim, and still have time to dress like a civilized being, but nothing is certain here.
Just as you decide to put the drugs away and empty the bottles out so they won't freeze during the winter, one of the boys comes into the hospital to have a cut dressed. "How on the face of the earth did you do that? And on the last day, too. Pity you could not remember to cut yourself during office hours." His excuse is that he found his pocket knife that he thought he had lost, in his other pants. Was so glad to see it that he just opened it to see if it would cut. It did.
We wash the wound, tie it up and shoo him out. Are we ever going to get away?
We had always divided the season into three periods, calling them as they affected us, Mad, Glad and Sad.
Mad the first part, until everything got into working order. Glad the second part, because things were going along all right, and Sad the last part, because we hated to leave.
But to-day we have reversed it, and the Sad is first; the Mad is last.
As I said a little while ago, my advice up to a certain point is to take it easy, but in order to do so you had better carefully follow this recipe:
Take one horse, one wagon, one set of harness and one whip. You can, if you wish, separate them, or, if you have room, leave them together. Watch youropportunity and hide them deep in the woods, where they can keep cool and quiet. When you are ready to use them step very carefully up to the horse, grasp the bridle and, jumping into the wagon, with the whip in your hand, drive off.
You might invite one or two of your friends to go along, but be sure to leave a seat for yourself.
We have often heard of people sprinting for a wager, and we have been an eye-witness of people who sprinted for a train, because they stayed back too long. Therefore, by following the above famous recipe, you will find it digestible and not hard to prepare.
Now, having left Camp at last, we have another most beautiful ride through shady roads, where the foliage is turning all colors, where Nature witha most lavish paint brush is tinting the maples, turning the apples into balls of gold and red, causing the golden rod to look like a golden border alongside the road. What a riot of color! Wild astors, gentian, foxgloves, everlasting flowers shading from yellow to darkest brown!
Summer still here, but autumn creeping in a little further each day!
Every minute of that drive is pleasure. We laugh. We sing. We joke with each other. What good friends we have all become! And yet how sad to think that in a few short hours we may part, perhaps never to meet again. Is it any wonder that I, who have had many partings, should feel sad? Is life only to be made up of partings? Or are we to look forward to happy meetings?
Who knows? Anyway, nothing is to be gained by spoiling our last few hourstogether. So again let us be merry and bright, adopting for our motto, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
The farmers come to the doors of the farm-houses to bid us good-bye and Godspeed. The same motherly cows stand looking at us with their serious eyes. The same frisky calves run along on the inside of the fence, a little older, a little wiser, but still recognizing kindred spirits among us, as when we travelled this road a few short weeks ago.
How quickly the time has flown! It is only impetuous youth who desires the time to fly. In later years he dreads to see it pass so quickly. If it is a long lane that never has a turning, then ours has been quite a long one. At last we come in sight of the depot.
What a merry crowd! It is quite an event to see us come and go, almost as good as the circus, but much cheaper.
Any of the Campers who have any change left are busily trying to get rid of it. They don't mean to be caught with any money on them when they get home if they can help it. The druggist, the fruit store, the candy shop, all get their share, and when the train pulls in, the boys can happily state that they have only car fare left.
The ride on the train affords plenty of enjoyment to old and young. The passengers who are not Campers are very much amused at the antics of those that are.
When they were going to Camp, they spent the hours before they got there by saying all they were going to do; now on leaving, they entertain each other by retailing all the fun they have had while there.
We get back to Portland in plenty of time for supper.
Everything looks clean, dainty and appetizing. The boys tuck in as though they never knew when they were going to get another square feed.
At last Nature, good old soul that she is, cried, "Stop or take the consequences," and most of them did. One or two who thought they had room for just a little more stowed away enough to give them a nice little stomach-ache, which ought to have taught them better.
After supper we went aboard the train, and settled ourselves comfortably until it was time to start.
Our berths were assigned to us and, as on our outward trip, the little shavers were put together at one end of the car in charge of instructors and Biddy.
Soon after we were all aboard, the train drew out of the station. For some little time, boys visited one another inthe different cars. Then the long-lost bugle was discovered. The bugler was summoned and ordered to blow "Quarters." Every man Jack of them at once obeyed, found out where he was to sleep and in less than one hour, when Taps were sounded, all were in bed.
For the last time the bugler stood in turn in every car sounding Taps, the porter ready to put the lights out. In that narrow space it sounded very loud, very clear and most beautiful.
"Good night, fellows; see you in the morning. Don't forget to come up to the house to-morrow night."
"Here, you, stop taking all the bed clothes." "Oh, you chaps in that upper berth, don't throw cracker crumbs around."
"Please, sir, can we have the window opened?" "Please, sir, can we have thewindow closed?" Laughter, happiness and teasing until the last one is asleep!
Throughout the long night nothing is heard but the click of the rails as the train drives on, the brakeman passing through with his green and red lanterns, the faithful instructors seeing that all are covered, our beloved Director himself looking out for the welfare of his flock.
Biddy herself in her favorite corner. But like an old mother hen who has carefully brought up the families of several other hens, now that her chickens are able to scratch for themselves, and when nightfall comes have wings strong enough to fly to the top of the roost, she feels she can stretch her legs, then one wing, then the other, cramped by long hovering, and with a sigh of complete satisfaction close her eyes in sleep, secure in the thought that "He whoslumbers not nor sleeps" will watch and protect her flock.
We still have to get dressed on the train, and that is something to look forward to.
Before daylight some of the boys are up and about. It is of no use trying to sleep any more, so we may as well tidy ourselves up, wash our faces, if there is any water, brush each other off, and try and look just a bit tidy when we get to the station.
Parents and friends will be so happy to see us that they will forgive us, no matter how wild and woolly we look.
To see such a company of tanned and healthy boys is well worth coming to the depot and waiting for belated trains.
As we hand over the last boy to his folks, what a lot of satisfaction it affords us to know and feel we have playedthe game fair, and given every one a square deal!
Once more we hear the Camp calls, sounding strange here in the city. Good byes are exchanged, thanks expressed, hopes for another season, and at last they have all been taken away from us.
We can go our way in peace, tracing, with happy finger, the word that ends our season's labor.