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
here makes 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.
[Illustration]