When Mr. John Temple conceived the big scout community which came to be
known the country over as Temple Camp, he had an inspiration that showed
his fine understanding of the scout idea.
He decided to introduce into the camp something which neither the solemn
woods nor the tranquil lake could give it; something which all the
projected rustic architecture could not supply. And that was an
atmosphere.
He was resolved that the scouts who flocked to the sequestered lakeside
resort should live in proximity to a real scout, one who had lived the
sort of life that is commemorated by scouting.
He would bring the prairies and the Rockies and the long, winding
trails, and all the associations which cluster about Indians and
grizzlies and buffaloes to Temple Camp in the romantic person of an old
western scout and guide whom he had met while in the Far West on
railroad business. Old Jeb Rushmore had guided Mr. Temple and a party of
surveyors to a pass in the mountains following what he called a trail
which was about as discernible to Mr. Temple as a trail left by an
airplane. The founder of the camp had spent a night in Rushmore’s lonely
cabin in Montana and had heard the voice of a grizzly in the distance.
A year later when land had been bought for the big camp in the
Catskills, Mr. Temple recalled that his old guide had told him that he
expected soon to give up his cabin in the Rockies and end his days at
Fort Benton in his beloved Montana. “Reckon I’m gettin’ old,” he had
told Mr. Temple. “That’s one thing yer can’t shoot,” he had added.
Indeed old age was the only foe that had a ghost of a chance of stealing
up on him.
So Mr. Temple invited Jeb Rushmore to come and live at Temple Camp and
the old scout, after some hesitation, agreed to do so. He spent one
night at the magnificent Temple residence in Bridgeboro where he seemed
not the least bit embarrassed by the gorgeous surroundings. He smoked
his pipe in Mr. Temple’s library and when that gentleman related how he
had gone to Washington once to seek an audience with President
Roosevelt, Jeb Rushmore casually remarked that he and Roosevelt had
hunted together in the Rockies. It developed that Mr. Temple had tried
to see Roosevelt and failed and that Roosevelt had gone a couple of
hundred miles out of his way to get in touch with Jeb. It was not likely
that Uncle Jeb would be dazzled by the formality of Mr. Temple’s
household.
Uncle Jeb, as he came to be known at camp, was given the title of
manager. But he had no executive duties. He was more than the camp’s
manager, he was its spirit. I have seen a scout camp with a statue of an
old pioneer on the camp grounds to convey the idea of scouting and
outdoor life. But Uncle Jeb was the living embodiment of all these
things; he wore a halo of tradition. It was a fine inspiration of Mr.
Temple’s, bringing this old scout to camp.
Uncle Jeb built log cabins and made trails and instructed the scouts in
pathfinding and stalking. He taught them the Indian trail marks. He
would send a boy off to go where he would in the forest, give him half
an hour’s head start, then take a party of boys and find him. He did
this without the least trouble.
“Why didn’t yer double on yer trail?” he would demand of the astonished
fugitive after running him down. “What’d I tell yer ’bout not steppin’
on no twigs ’n’ bustin’ ’em?”
“You can’t run without breaking twigs,” the embarrassed boy would
protest. “And anyway, if I doubled on my trail you’d trace me anyway; so
what’s the use?”
“Yer don’t hev ter tech no trees, do yer?” the old guide would say, “’n’
leave all yer duds hangin’ on ’em like a ole wash hangin’ out.”
“You can’t run in the woods without touching trees or even stepping on
twigs,” the poor victim would protest. “Anyway, it’s no use trying to
get away, not from you, _Jiminy Christopher_!”
What Uncle Jeb meant when he charged an unfortunate scout with leaving
his duds hanging on trees “like a ole wash” was that the baffled
youngster had left one strand of a fringe from his scout scarf on some
obscure bramble bush.
“If yer decorate yer path like if a parade wuz comin’ ’tain’ no chore
findin’ yer, now is it?” Uncle Jeb would ask. “Here yer scares away a
turtle what was settin’ on a rock and I sees where the spot wuz he was a
settin’ on. Yer ain’t reckonin’ I was blind, wuz yer?”
No, they didn’t think he was blind, they thought he had eyes all over
him. It was disheartening trying to get away from Uncle Jeb.
“Now, youngster, you try agin,” the old man would say, “’n’ remember you
ain’t diggin’ a cut fer a railroad ’n’ yer ain’t layin’ out no line o’
march ’s if yer wuz marchin’ through Georgie. ’N’ don’t make a noise
like yer wuz shoutin’ the battle cry of freedom. ’Cause yer jes’ scare
the birds ’n’ the turtles ’n’ they goes ’n’ tells on yer. Now you try
once more.”
But it would be just the same thing over again.