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 a bath 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 one boy 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, still
with 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 in its 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 may even 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 white balls, 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, if one 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 punishment you 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.
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