The Project Gutenberg eBook ofCampingThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: CampingAuthor: Alexandra Agusta Guttman LockwineRelease date: January 28, 2013 [eBook #41937]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Emmy and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMPING ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: CampingAuthor: Alexandra Agusta Guttman LockwineRelease date: January 28, 2013 [eBook #41937]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Emmy and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)
Title: Camping
Author: Alexandra Agusta Guttman Lockwine
Author: Alexandra Agusta Guttman Lockwine
Release date: January 28, 2013 [eBook #41937]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Chris Curnow, Emmy and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMPING ***
ByBiddyKnown in Real Life asALEXANDRA G. LOCKWINE, R. N.
emblem of book on stand
Illustrated, Arranged and Printed byTHE ADVERTISERS PRINTING CO.133 West 24th Street, New York
Copyrighted byAlexandra G. Lockwine1911
CHAPTERPAGEI.Getting Ready9II.Leaving the City21III.On the Way to Camp31IV.First Day at Camp37V.Routine53VI.Afternoon Sports65VII.Evening Games73VIII.Camping Trips85IX.Odds and Ends, Including Prayers97X.Football107XI.Boating115XII.Final Contests, Track Work127XIII.Visitors139XIV.Last Days151XV.Awarding Prizes163XVI.Leaving Camp169
To Dr. George Alexander Kohut, who may not be a good judge of whiskey, but who is a Gentleman and a Scholar, one of the few Preachers whodoesas hesays, this book is affectionately dedicated by the author.
February 14, 1911
NOWADAYS, whenever we pick up a magazine, we read the notices of Camps all the way from Maine to California, who are in need of Campers, and think how very popular camping is becoming, when as a matter of fact it is the one and only pastime that has always retained its popularity.
We can trace it back to the prehistoric ages; see it carved in hieroglyphics on obelisks, find upon investigation that North, South, East or West, the tribes of Red, Black, Yellow and White, have gloried in living in tents, so is it any wonder that mankind still loves it?
This thin veneer of civilization which makes us desire to shut ourself in structures of brick and wood is only skin deep. Right under the surface the love for the open prevails so strongly, that every little while a man who has been brought up according to our standards breaks loose, takes to the road and lives a life of freedom, while the world looking on pities him for going down in the scale and tries to bring him back from the life his nature craves, to one of humdrum existence.
Then come along with me, please, do, for just one summer in Camp and you will say at the end of the season that you can squeeze more fun into a canvas tent than into all the palaces you ever were in.
boys with packs on walking
Getting Ready.
With the catalog and prospectus in front of you, making delightful little shivers run up and down your spine, you begin marking down, first, the articles you must have; then the things you hope your fond relatives will give you; then the clothes and athletic goods without which any boy with true camping spirit cannot get along.
Your father, who secretly expects to come out to Camp and use some of your cherished sweaters, running pants, swimming trunks, etc., etc., suggests that you get extra large sizes, to allow for shrinkage. You protest, telling him that you don't want your clothes to looklike "hand-me-downs," that you had inherited from your big brother.
After many heart-breaking wrenches, during which you feel as though even death itself were preferable to giving up all the articles you have chosen, you effect a compromise by saying you will be satisfied with one fishing rod, six pairs of running pants, several pairs of sneakers, lots of sweaters, a complete outfit of oilskins, tennis racket, baseball bat, balls, and Oh! what a good boy you would be, if you could have a canoe.
You would study all winter, not want to stay up late, cross your heart to leave cigarettes and trashy novels alone, but, gee whiz! only to be the owner of a canoe. You even appeal to your father, who weighs in the neighborhood of 200 pounds, and try to make him see the fun of going out with you. Suppose youwere upset? What of it? You can both swim.
Mother, dear, puts a quick veto on that. No canoe for you at any price. In fact, owing to her nervous system being in need of recuperation, she thinks the bath tub the best place to swim in, and deplores the risks one must take in order to be athletic.
The 'House' having vetoed the canoe question, you offer another little bill, asking for an appropriation for a shotgun, or at least one of those dandy little air rifles, so you can shoot at targets and the farmers' cows and chickens.
Before you can be heard the 'House' vetoes that, too. Danger signals are displayed, and you feel as though you were treading on a third rail.
The 'House' suggests that you should spend the summer with her, takingviews with your Kodak, walking miles every day and playing ping pong and lotto every evening, thus getting a nice quiet rest to prepare you for a long winter's study.
In the deepest despair you clutch your father's hand. He gives you a sympathetic squeeze in return. Say, is there anything on the face of this earth like the loving freemasonry between a sporty parent and his little son?
Not to agitate matters any more and change the subject, you ask how much pocket money you are to be allowed per week. The 'House' again rises to object, claiming that, as there are no car fares to be paid or soda fountains to tempt, you cannot have any possible use for money. You will be furnished with plenty of paper and stamped envelopes and sundries, thus for once relieving you of the strain of handling money.
Well, whoever heard of a right little, tight little boy who objected to the jingle of loose change in his pants pockets? "If such there be, go mark him well," for he surely will need watching.
From data you have gathered, you inform the 'House' that a camel with three stomachs isn't in it with a hungry boy at Camp; that your special friends, Jack, Ed, and Fatty, all spend their weekly money, and that nothing but the fear of being punished keeps them from gnawing the canvas tents. They live in the open all the time and are constantly hungry.
Just about the time when one feels that hunger laughs at locksmiths, the ice cream and cake man drives in. If you have ever in your travels seen a horde of hungry little piglings swarm all over a trough you can form some idea of what those boys do to that wagon.The boys are simply starving for ice cream and cake. One plate is only an introduction; with the second one you begin to distinguish the flavor; it really needs a third one to put that sweet icy feeling in your stomach so earnestly desired by the growing youth. The next day, or maybe next but one, our friend the fruit man calls. All your life you have been told of the value of fruit. Your system at this time craves lots of it. It is very good for you. Oh! yes, certainly! but it has to be paid for from some of that pocket money. All this and more you tell them, being careful to cross your t's and dot your i's for fear of the 'House's' objections.
Father and mother decide to consult together. You see the moment has arrived, when you will gain more by saying less, so you kiss them good-night and "stand not upon the order of your going."
Upstairs you fall into a brown study. With your clothes half off, you think of the fun you will have; perhaps of the medals you will win, and there creeps just a little undercurrent of sadness through you at the thought of parting from your devoted parents. "Ah, me! I kind of hate to leave mother," you think, then console yourself that they will be coming up to see you. About this time your day dream ends suddenly, for they are coming upstairs. Out goes the light. Into bed you jump. Are asleep in the twinkling of an eye, to dream that you are at Camp, enjoying all the fun and frolic there.
The minute you open your eyes in the morning you read the catalog from beginning to end, look at the pictures, try to fancy yourself posing as the champion high diver, jumper and tennis player, and forget to brush your teeth, in yourhurry to get to school, where you can consult with your chums.
Not one sporting goods window can you pass without a curious glance. In fact, dear boy, you are in such a maze that when the teacher asks you to tell him how you would start for the North Pole you answer promptly: "From the Grand Central Station, on the Bar Harbor Express," and, for the life of you, cannot see why the class roars at you.
Some weeks never seem to come to an end, and this, the very longest week of your life, just crawls away. Saturday your fond father has promised to go with you and purchase the athletic goods, while mother attends to the rest.
You want to know where he is going to buy them and what he is going to get. Are told to come along and not fuss any more. If there is any smell on the face of this earth that smells nicer than newleather in an athletic goods shop, I want to smell it. Oh, me! Oh, my! what beauties, and you have to bite your tongue to keep from interrupting.
Business has been very good with father, and he, thinking back over his own boyhood, when money was as scarce as hens' teeth, makes up his mind to fit you out so as to be a credit to yourself and him.
Later in life you may blossom out in a Prince Albert and silk hat, a dinner or full dress suit, but never, as long as you live, will clothes ever give you the unalloyed pleasure that these camping togs do in your first year at Camp.
As a rule, you are not over and above fond of carrying bundles. The cook can vouch for that. How much bribery she had to practice to make you bring home quickly a bottle of milk or of water or a bunch of soup greens. But now youare perfectly willing to carry everything from sneakers to caps, and can hardly trust the salesman to send them home.
In the privacy of your room you strip off your clothes in a jiffy, for the joy of trying on the different sweaters, running pants and swimming trunks. In your baseball clothes you pose, in fancy, almost a miniature Mathewson; try a high dive from the bureau to the bed; do a hurdle over the towel rack. Nothing but the fear of breaking the furniture stops you in your wild gambols.
Another peep at the catalog to see if you have everything you need; a fervent hope that you may make good, and bring home with you in the fall a silver cup or trophy. Then, carefully folding each and every garment with almost reverent care, you vow to keep your trunk in order. If any one should mention the fact to you, you would be indignant at theidea of not caring a jot at the end of the season whether you collected your belongings or left them lying around loose.
Among the gifts you have thus far received are a compass, a kodak and a housewife filled with thread, needles, buttons, etc. There does not seem to be one thing wanting to make life one long, sweet song unless it is the canoe which you hope for next year. All through life that one little thing which would make us perfectly happy, if we had it, and yet the perfect happiness is not for mortals. Truly, the poet knew what he was talking about when he said,
"Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each to-morrowFind us farther than to-day."
Boys and others at train station
Leaving the City.
A few days before we leave for Camp all the boys, new and old, are invited to meet at the home of the Director to become acquainted with one another. It is called a rally, and truly the boys do rally around the Director, whose greatest fault is that he loves mankind too much, for his idea of Heaven is that it is filled with boys alone. One look in his face will convince the most skeptical, and association for even a brief season with him makes a boy feel truer and better.
The principal part of the rally consists of partaking bountifully of ice cream, cake and lemonade, while exchanging yarns with old friends, making new acquaintances, thinking up new jokes, and enjoying the shining hours. The facultyhobnob with each other, and, taking it altogether, it is a delightful afternoon, one to be remembered as a red letter day.
Even the old Camp nurse calls around, to be greeted by both her friends and enemies; to renew her friendship for all, mentally picking out new favorites, while keeping a warm spot in her heart for old boys. There is something in the air that starts her off right away using camp slanguage, and behaving like one of the boys. She just cannot help getting into the spirit of the thing. All the way over to the rally she had told herself that she must act in a dignified way becoming to a woman of 80 in the shade, then the minute she catches sight of the crowd she throws dignity to the winds, saying she'll none of it, is ready for a tussle with or without gloves, snaps her fingers at old Father Time. Let thesands run down if they must, but until the last grain has run, she hopes to be with her boys, to tease, to love, to try and care for them. If they need a mother's care, all right; she is there. Are they in want of a chum? Well, in a pinch she will do. As long as she can make them happy in her poor little way, what cares she if she does make a goose of herself?
You see that, after all, the keynote of life is LOVE. With it, the very poorest home is happy; without it, a palace is dreary. So poor old Nursie starts out by loving the Director, and right on down the line, finding good qualities in the worst and tamest boy there. She is devoutly thankful for the chance to spend some weeks with those who love her, despite her years and looks.
But we must not get mushy. So let's travel along and get to the starting point, or how shall we ever get there?
The day before we leave New York the expressman calls for our trunks, bags, etc., which ends our troubles as far as they are concerned. We never see anything of them until we get to Camp, yet they have been on their way just the same as we. There they stand on the Campus, waiting to be put into the tents. They are filled with good things to decorate and make these little homes look like college rooms.
The long-looked-for day is here at last. A farewell look around to see that we have forgotten nothing, we make a solemn promise to write regularly, to keep our teeth clean, not to eat much trash, to keep out of danger, not to get wet, to mind the Director and faculty; in fact, to be good, good, good.
Compared to the excitement at the depot, the Tower of Babel was a peacefulvillage. Of course, it is a fool comparison to compare the anxious parents' wanderings to that of a lot of hens who have just been decapitated, yet they will feel so terribly anxious at the parting moment. Every mother wants her boy looked after, never mind the rest. The boy himself doesn't want to be fussed over, and most awfully hates to be petted in public.
Yes, sir! I have known boys who would kick at being petted in public, and yet were perfectly willing to have some one lie down with them at night, telling them fairy stories until they were sleepy. They never entirely get over that, either, only the tables are reversed in later years, they being the ones to tell the fairy stories.
The gates are opened; one wild rush for the cars; mothers kissing the wrong boys in their excitement; everybodytrying to get away from somebody else, the inevitable small boy with fiendish cunning letting go of your hand, shouts, laughter, tears and prayers, follow us as we step aboard the special train reserved for our Camp, "Good-bye, dear—Be a good boy—Write soon—Clean your teeth—Don't poke your head out of the window—Tell the Nurse about your medicine—Tell the faculty about your clothes—Ask the doctor to keep an eye on you—Let the Director 'phone me as soon as you get there"—these, and a thousand and one more questions and orders, follow us as we slowly glide out of the train shed.
We soothe the nervous parents, honestly promising them to look after their darlings, send them home with sometimes a heavy heart at the thought of parting from their children, yet thankful that they can give them advantagesthat they themselves could not always have in their youth. There are, of course, exceptions; many a father realizes that he has not the knack of training his boys and being wise, decides to let others do it for him. For what on earth is sadder than parent and child who do not understand each other, constantly pulling at the wrong end of the rope, growing farther and farther apart as the years go by.
Before the train is in the tunnel the little chaps are peeling off their collars, ties and all the clothes they dare, having been almost roasted, that hot June evening, before starting.
The porter is ordered to make up berths at once. You really would think they wanted to go to bed. It looks that way for a minute, but is only a huge bluff. While ample room has been allowed for all, the rascals prefer gettinginto each other's berths. Only the very little boys go to sleep before 10 or 11 p. m. Such a glorious time as they have! But even the wildest boy must let up some time until his storage batteries are recharged. At last quiet prevails, and for the next few hours nothing is heard but the click of the rails, the warning whistle, the brakeman passing through the cars with shining lantern, one or another of the faculty seeing that all's well, our Director himself looking out for the comfort of the little ones.
Biddy herself, on the job, like the old woman of nursery rhyme who had so many children she didn't know what to do, is put down at one end of the car with all the littlest ones. These she can watch (when she's awake), and gather under her wings in case of storm. There is no storm, unless one of protest at the general racket made.
Boys in wagons racing, pigs and chickens trying to get out of the way
On the Way to Camp.
The night passes at last. With the first streak of daylight boys jump up and dress quickly, for we are due at Portland a little after 7 a. m.
Our breakfast has been ordered ahead. All we have to do is to eat it, not like the famous recipe for cooking a hare; ours has been caught, skinned and cooked. It seems to fill the bill, for with good appetite we fall to, causing even the waiters, who are used to almost everything, to gasp at the way the food disappears.
About half an hour is allowed us at the station. Then "All aboard" for Oxford. What a beautiful country we are passing through! The late spring heremakes everything look beautifully tender and green; rolling country, which, after all, is the perfect landscape, passes before us. After the heat and dust of the city, how cool and refreshing this is! Comfortable farm houses, lovely orchards, with the trees heavy with young fruit, winding streams, songbirds on every side, overhead a sky of tenderest blue, with here and there a fleck of white—even the cattle grazing in the fields seem to know that we are coming, for they low, and the calves run along the inside of the fence seeming to recognize kindred spirits. Through this most beautiful section of country we ride for one and one-half hours, stopping at Oxford.
Carriages are waiting for the 6-mile ride to Camp. We thought Nature in her most lavish mood had shown us the best she had while we were on the train,but here were more and more surprises in store for us. Were you to take a little of Lake George, mix it with some shady lanes in England, add the clear atmosphere of the Catskills, sprinkle around a few of the prettiest lakes in Switzerland, borrow the Italian skies for a covering, even then, Maine, in this section, can give the rest of the country cards and spades and beat them at that.
We are really very glad, though, when we come in sight of Camp. Even the loveliest drive won't satisfy a boy who is anxious to get to his tent. He wants to get out of his city clothes, and into Camp attire. What a beautiful scene opens before us! The lake, like a sheet of polished silver, rows of tents waiting for tenants, the tables already set for dinner, all the house help on hand smiling a welcome, and willing to make every one feel quickly at home.
Wagon after wagon drives up and discharges its load of living freight. They climb out any way, over the back, over the dashboard, over the wheels, the farmers threatening to sue for damages for injuries inflicted upon their ancient turnouts.
Boys sitting around in camp
First Day in Camp.
Before we can locate ourselves the bugle sounds for mess. Each of the instructors has a certain number of boys in his care, so there is not the slightest confusion.
There is not a roof garden or a palm room or any other make-believe place for eating outdoors in the city that can compare with this. To eat out-of-doors with such air, such views, such food! Those who are hungry pitch right in; those with little appetite begin to eat, gaining a love for the food as they go along. Second helpings of everything are called for and eaten, until at last the waistband protests at such pressure being put upon it.
As soon as the signal is given to leave the table every boy takes quick advantage of it. We see them, running here and there, looking for their bags and boxes. For the next few hours they are as busy as the proverbial bee.
Boys, who, when at home, have not even as much as taken their changes of linen out of the bureau, who since infancy have been washed, combed, brushed and dressed by fond mothers and nurses, here learn for the first time what it is to do for themselves.
It is a joyful revelation to them to find out how much they can do. Heretofore they have not only been willing to let others do for them but have demanded it; now, when they need a bath, there is no one to prepare it for them, so they just go ahead and gather their belongings together and run down to the lake. No shutting of windows and taking abath in a torrid temperature, with some one handy to rub your back, following that with an alcohol rub. I guess not. You go into water that sparkles, slop around if you cannot swim; swim around if you cannot slop. The water just soaks out all the impurities. Then out you jump. Sometimes you dry with a towel, most of the time the sun dries you, and of all the lovely towels on the face of this earth the pleasant sunshine, woven with gentle breezes, is the one and only towel for me.
In the city a chap just hurries into the water, soaps the washrag, debates, if he is in a hurry, whether to wash from head to foot or just touch the dirty places lightly and depend upon the towel to do the rest. Sometimes he sits down in the tub and doesn't wash at all; just sits there, thinking, like a bump on a log,until he is warned of the flight of time; then jumps out again, not half clean.
But at Camp the joy of going into the water is doubled, nay, trebled, by the knowledge that you cannot go in when you want to, but must wait until the proper hour; and this, our first day there, is about the middle of the afternoon.
Most of us fancy we can swim well until we go into a large body of water. There is all the difference in the world between making a fast sprint in a tank, under cover, with no currents or wind or shoaling water to impede one's movements. That is why so many boys have to find out for themselves the difference. Many boys who have held records for indoor swimming make rather poor showing when it comes to long-distance swimming in the open.
Our first afternoon at Camp passes so quickly that before you can say Jack Robinson it is time for supper. We have not done one-quarter of the self-imposed tasks. How can a fellow do much when he just has to stop every few seconds to look out of his tent? The water allures with its sparkle, the woods invite you to come and rest in their shade; the Campus begs for your company; baseball diamonds plead for just one game; tennis courts spread their nets to catch the player; basketball courts coax with their goals on high; the running track dares you to sprint just once around. What, with flags floating, sun shining, life and animation everywhere, is it any wonder that supper time finds us this day with happiness in our hearts, trunks upset, tents half decorated, letters to parents begun, everything started and nothing finished? On this, our first day, there is not oneboy in a hundred who could put his share of the tent in order.
Take, for instance, the Kodak fiend. How can he bother with such things as arranging his toilet articles, when the sun is just right for snapping a few views? He surely can put his share in order when the shadows begin to fall. He uses up a roll of films without much result, because in his hurry to snapshot the entire country in one afternoon he makes mistakes. Later on he will discriminate, to his advantage, and by the end of the season show some pictures worth while.
Then there is the boy who has brought his musical instrument along to Camp. No matter whether it is a mandolin or a guitar, a violin or a drum, a banjo or jewsharp, it is an instrument, isn't it? sometimes of pleasure, most of the time of torture to the sensitive nerves, stillwith the best of intentions he tightens the keys, looks up at the ridge pole for inspiration and lets her go. He may play some selection from Beethoven or Chopin in a way to touch one's heart, causing work to cease while he plays. Then again it may be ragtime played out of time and tune, making one's fingers itch to slap him and destroy his musical instrument; but, no matter what it is, it is done for pleasure, and is accepted as such by his admiring tentmates.
So much for art and music. Then there is the boy who is anxious to start a game. That chap is to be really pitied. No matter how many times he puts the bat in the corner of his tent it has a sneaking way of rolling back again to his feet. Could it speak, it would probably, in a wooden sort of voice, ask what he had brought it along for. No bat with a bit of self-respecting feeling inits wooden heart likes to look new. It feels that its chief charm is to be useful more than ornamental, and if you are at all doubtful about the sympathetic feeling between a baseball bat and a good player, then just go to any one of the good games and watch the batters. Many a time have I been amused at their antics. They take up an apparently respectable old bat, swing it around, feel its weight, hit the ground with it, and just when you think that the bat in self-defense will swat them one they throw it down in disgust. The bat often rolls back again, asking for another trial. Has it not been created for just this kind of work? Then what right has a man to throw it down without a trial?
To an outsider there seems to be madness in their methods. Yet it may be the reverse, just as some people are created for one special line of work, so mayeven a piece of wood be better fitted to form a plank that stays in one place, while another piece of wood has so much life in it, whether you will or not, if you use that particular bat you are bound to win.
But for all-round madness, commend me to the tennis player. He is hopeless from the start, and all he knows about love is what he wins in the game. They will go without meals, play at all hours, and are as greedy as can be about holding on to courts. Yet tennis could be made a sentimental game. What with its couples, playing for love and courts, and nets, Cupid himself might take a hand in arranging the matches.
Well, the tennis fiend goes out, whether it is hot or cold, that first afternoon, finds a partner, runs, jumps and leaps all afternoon after two little whiteballs, with never a care as to whether his share of the tent is in order or not.
That is baseball and tennis for you, gentle reader.
Next, on this our first day, there is the boy who wants a boat and the boy who wants a swim.
No wonder poets have made verses about boating since time first was. Talk about the poetry of motion! To lie in the bottom of a roomy boat on a still lake on a sunny afternoon, the water lapping the sides in a gentle, soothing way, making us think of our mothers when they held us on their laps, just rocking so slowly and easily that we felt as if we cuddled up to her, her arms tight around us (as though to ward off all evil), and our head leaning on her breast, that heaven itself could offer nothing sweeter than this—indeed, ifone had one's choice between being a little cherub a la Raphael, with cunning wings growing out of his shoulder blades, or just sitting on mother's lap and being loved, I rather think heaven would be short of cherubs, while every mother's lap would be filled.
Then why call a boy lazy who likes to lie idly in a boat, with his face turned up to the blue heavens? He probably is planning wonderful things to do when he grows up; in the meantime feeling an echo of the past, stirring his inmost being.
But of all the villains, the boy who wants a swim is the worst. He will do you the honor to ask for it, and is perfectly happy if you grant permission. He is evidently descended from some one of the original fishes who went into Noah's Ark. His nature craves water.
Long living on shore has rid his skin of any scaly look, but the fish blood is there just the same. He can dive to the bottom of the pool and stay there looking up at you with glassy eyes, for all the world like a sulky trout. When he leaps in the water you are reminded of a porpoise splashing through the foam at the vessel's bow. Again cutting through the water, half-submerged, how like a shark chasing its prey, this may consist of some harmless old female, who is gently ambling along. The first thing she knows some monster of the deep has grabbed her by the leg and is dragging her under water. She shrieks as in her struggles she fancies some dread sea monster is taking her to its lair. With almost superhuman effort she breaks loose, when the monster arises to laugh at her fright. It is the born swimmer, the descendant of prehistoric fishes, and the worst punishmentyou can give him is to keep him out of the water.
So much for the boatman and swimmer. By supper time most of the boys have laid the foundation for an elegant coat of tan, some will be badly sunburnt by to-morrow, for Old Sol dearly loves to scorch the tender skin of the city youth. It is useless to warn them about stripping all their clothes off too soon. How are they going to get a good coat of tan on by the end of the season if they don't begin right away? The only thing to do is to put plenty of oil on, and if "pain still treads on the heels of pleasure" they will learn the wisdom of making haste slowly.
We have a delightful supper. All of the boys do ample justice to it. Afterwards they lounge around for a short period, when again the bugle blows "Quarters."
Getting undressed in a tent with three other boys is lots of fun. There is no clothes closet to hang your clothes in, just a line made of rope or wire stretched across that serves as a clothes horse. The night is cool, and both front and back flaps of the tent are wide open to the breezes. Just half an hour is allowed to prepare for bed. Then the bugler sounds "Taps," the most beautiful call of all. Lights go out and silence reigns. Here and there laughter may be heard, but the majority of the boys are so tired that their heads have hardly touched the pillows before they are asleep, after one of the longest and happiest days of their lives.
Everyone busy in camp
Routine.
Bright and early the next morning the bugler sounds reveille. Every one jumps out of bed, although a few have already been up since daylight, so eager are they to be real Campers.
As soon as every one is out of bed the setting up exercises take place. For fifteen minutes the boys, under the leadership of the instructors, go through a course of calisthenics, after which they go down to the water for a scrub and plunge, brush their teeth and get their clothes on. By that time the bugle calls to them to get into line, ready to march to the table for breakfast.
All who are not on line-in will find themselves marching round the Campus,which is a block square, several times. Good exercise for them, at the same time teaching them the truth about "Time and tide waiting for no man."
Another good meal awaits us, plenty of good, substantial food, that will put strength into us and at the same time tickle our palate.
After breakfast we find that it is not all play at Camp. Some are inclined to loaf; some would like to wander around; others, with some definite object in view, plan to go out for practice runs or games. But, hold on, noble youths, you have slept in your beds, have you not? Well, like Mr. Squeers' method, we will ask you to spell "bed," then go and make it up. Also you have upset your tents. Again, you are given gracious permission to tidy them also.
Here we have no willing mothers, no handy chambermaids, to put everythingin apple-pie order. This is truly Camp, and you are simply soldiers Camping.
The Director may have an orderly to do his work, but, as for the rest of the Campers, it is every man for himself, from the instructors down to the smallest boy. Each and every one must do his share. Beds are made, tents swept out, clothes hung up, and when the bugle again calls "Inspection" each and every boy must be at his tent.
The Director, accompanied by his staff, inspects, marking for and against each tent. Accordingly, there is keen competition between the boys to see who has the most orderly tent for the season. Prizes are awarded to the tent that has the best record. All this conduces to neat habits, and lets the boys see there is more to be gained by doing the right than the wrong thing.
Again the bugle calls for "Assembly." This is one of the most interesting events of the day. Here we can all sit under the shade of beautiful trees and listen to the orders being given out; the schedule of the games to be played; the list of those to be punished for breaking the rules, etc., etc. On this occasion the bad boy, knowing full well that he has been marked for punishment and is going to get it anyway, does a little more to amuse his friends while he annoys those in office.
As soon as the orders are given the boys are dismissed, some to go on the field for a game of tennis, others for baseball, others for walking trips. For the little boys there is tether ball and the junior baseball diamond. In fact, whatever is for the big boys is good for his little brothers, excepting football.
In the midst of the fun we hear the bugle again. That is the swimming call; so hurry with your bats, tennis rackets and any other thing you may be doing at this particular moment. Get your swimming trunks and rush down to the dock.
Now for fun. Those who can swim, how gracefully they dive in, swim under water, and just when your heart is in your mouth for fear they are drowned up they come in the opposite direction.
The boys who are not very good swimmers make up for skill by lots of splashing about in the shallow water. They duck each other, try to float, and act for all the world like a school of young porpoises. I myself like to go out with them. They take me for a friendly old mother whale and climb all over me, never so happy as when they get me down under the water. Thensometimes I take a large, roomy boat, invite them in and pole them around the lake to their enjoyment and my own, too.
But this chapter tells of routine, so we must obey the whistle when it blows. That means all out, and any one caught in after that is kept out for two or three times—about the worst kind of punishment you could give a boy.
Fortunately, the boys have very little dressing to do, a pair of running pants and a pair of sneakers being considered full dress. Long before the bugle tells them to form in line they are ready and hungry.
This ends the morning. We have been warned to write home to parents, but the study period after dinner is the time appointed for that. After a bountiful dinner we see them prepared towrite. The big boy will write willingly to some of his folks and loves to write to the girls. He does not have to be reminded that Wednesday and Sunday are letter writing days. The middle sized chap needs a little urging, but the little bear is the one who forgets. He may be so homesick that you dare hardly speak to him on that subject, yet he has to be forced to write regularly.
There are exceptions, of course. Take little Jimsey, for instance, whom I found crying. The minute I looked at him I knew right away what kind of malady he was afflicted with. Says I to him: "Jimsey, old boy, have you written home to your family yet?" "No," he answered, "I don't know how to spell all the words right. You see, I have never been away from home before and never had to write letters to my mother." "Oh, if that's all that ails you, I am the bossletter writer. So, come along with me, young man, and you can dictate and I will write." "Can I do that?" he wanted to know. "Of course you can. The Director will say it is all right." And this is what Jimsey wrote to his mother, at least he dictated and I wrote it: