[Transcriber's Note: Underlining in the text is surrounded by +plus
signs+. Italics are surrounded by _underscores_.]
CAMPING
By
Biddy
Known in Real Life as
ALEXANDRA G. LOCKWINE, R. N.
[Illustration]
_Illustrated, Arranged and Printed by_
THE ADVERTISERS PRINTING CO.
133 West 24th Street, New York
Copyrighted by
Alexandra G. Lockwine
1911
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Getting Ready 9
II. Leaving the City 21
III. On the Way to Camp 31
IV. First Day at Camp 37
V. Routine 53
VI. Afternoon Sports 65
VII. Evening Games 73
VIII. Camping Trips 85
IX. Odds and Ends, Including Prayers 97
X. Football 107
XI. Boating 115
XII. Final Contests, Track Work 127
XIII. Visitors 139
XIV. Last Days 151
XV. Awarding Prizes 163
XVI. Leaving Camp 169
Dedication
_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 who
+does+ as he +says+, this book is affectionately dedicated by the
author._
_February 14, 1911_
Foreword
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.
[Illustration]
CAMPING
CHAPTER I.
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 look like
"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 you were 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, taking
views 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 your hurry 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 new leather 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 you are 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 the idea
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-morrow
Find us farther than to-day."
[Illustration]