Visitors.
After the boys are settled at Camp for a few weeks they begin to look
forward to a visit from some of their folks. They plan what they are
going to do and what points of interest they will take them to, and hope
with all their heart, soul and mind that a large box of good things may
be sent up for the tent.
What does it matter if they are forbidden to receive such articles?
Either by begging, pleading or some other excuse they let the Director
know that this is their first offence. They will only eat a little at a
time, and divide it with a lot of boys, thus lessening the danger of
overeating, and getting the credit of being generous at one and the same
time.
Some parents take long trips themselves while their children are with
us. Other parents plan to come as a surprise.
When they drive or auto in the first feeling that most mothers have is
amazement at the undressed condition of their offspring. As quickly as
they can get out of carriage or automobile they hasten to button up the
shirt, if the boy has one on, or to plead with him to put one on if his
is off. They feel the breezes blow and shiver at the thought of the boys
sleeping in such open tents; advise that the tent flaps be tightly
closed at night for fear of the boys taking cold.
They seem to think we are a hardened, cruel crowd because we laugh at
their fears. It is not one bit of use trying to convince mother because
she won't be convinced. So we save our breath for father. Here we have
some ground upon which to sow our seed. We invite him to stay a day or
two; "Peel off," we tell him, and "be a boy again. Go in swimming. Go
out in a boat. Try a game of ball. Play a set of tennis. Do a little
sprint around the running track. We can offer you a lot more sports if
you will stay and visit us," we tell him.
In the evenings we can play shuffle board, have some good music, some
singing that will make the cats on the back fence green with envy; then
last, but not least, we can have a camp-fire. Have you ever been out in
the country and helped build a real camp-fire?
After supper every one is pressed into service to help gather the wood.
Little chaps stagger along under heavier loads than they can carry,
dropping two pieces for every one they pick up, but never saying die. I
just love those little gritty kids.
The bigger boys and instructors carry regular old trees, reminding one
of an army of ants struggling along manfully to move their quarters.
One or two capable men, who have the art of building bonfires down to a
fine point, stay on the field to receive the wood, pile it up and start
the fire going.
That is the preliminary only. Are we going to have a corn roast? Then
the juicy ears of corn, two for every boy, are brought up to the field.
Plenty of good butter and salt in a large bowl is at hand. The boys,
visitors and all, form in line, march past the table, where the supplies
are heaped up, receive their portion, and hurry along.
By this time the fire has died down to a bright red glow. The smoke and
blazes have stopped, the embers being just right to cook the corn; it is
stripped of its silk, then the leaves are carefully put back in place
and laid down where it will cook through without burning.
Song, laughter and sport pass the time until a fragrant smell assures us
that something is doing. Gee whiz! Strip the leaves off. Butter it
generously. Never mind if the butter does run down your arm. Close your
eyes and sink your teeth into it.
In polite homes they have corn holders, and dainty little knives for
splitting it open so that the butter can soak in, and all manner of
helps to make corn eating a dainty pleasure. They can have them in their
homes all they like, but out here, under this beautiful sky, dotted with
stars like tiny lanterns to show us what to do, give me my ear of sweet
corn and let me eat it this way.
Sometimes we have a marshmallow roast, generally a treat from one of
our kind visitors, who may not have even stayed to enjoy it with us.
After our fire is just right we serve out the marshmallows to the boys.
This time they have a very sharp-pointed stick, on which they gently
fasten one at a time, holding them close enough to the fire to roast
them. They say they are delicious, and, judging from the fact that
frequently they eat between them all, about 2,000 marshmallows, they
must be very palatable. Personally, I cannot vouch for them, as, somehow
or other, I don't like them, either cooked or raw, though my friends
persist in treating me to them.
Another treat is a clambake and watermelon feast. That we have on the
shore. When packed in sea weed, all manner of good things are roasted,
including the faces and hands of the good-natured helpers.
Sweet potatoes roasted this way are delicious, and chicken has an
entirely different taste than that cooked in the oven. There is
something for every kind of taste and appetite, and plenty to go around.
The modest boy is helped to his share, the independent chap is allowed
to help himself, while the greedy fellow is held back for fear he will
overload and capsize. At last even the boy who is hard to please
declares he has had enough. So with a rousing cheer for the kind visitor
whose guests we have been, the bugler sounds "Quarters," a welcome sound
to us all. Sometimes the visitor asks if he can become a Camper for a
few days or a week. He will gladly pay for the great privilege, for such
it is, to be a boy again among boys.
It is granted to him; not one extra for him, mind you. He must take
what the Campers have, the same fare, the same tents, the same beds. If
he wishes to join us on these conditions, well and good. Then he can
come in and welcome.
From a responsible man of business in the city, in one short night he
turns Time back in his flight and becomes again a merry, happy boy, a
boy with a capacity for enjoying the simple pleasures of Camp life more
than any growing boy can understand.
Hasn't he seen both sides of the picture? Doesn't he know that the
plain, clean way of living we have out there is the only true way to
exist? What kind of food can give him the satisfaction that this rough
fare does? When, with appetite sharpened by sleeping in the open air,
enough physical exercise to make his blood flow with renewed purity
through his system, he sits at table, he not idly wonders whether there
will be anything worth eating, but only hopes there will be two helpings
of everything. Like poor, little Oliver Twist, he asks for more.
Such a Visitor will turn to and help the little chaps, will go down to
the beach with them, show them how to wash and take care of their
clothes, go in the water with them, and take them out in the boats. He
acts for all the world like a big, good-hearted brother.
In return there isn't a Camper, from the Director down to the dog, that
doesn't adore him, and will at every and any time do anything in his
power to make his stay enjoyable.
Our keenest regret is when the day comes for him to leave us. Not alone
does he carry back to the city renewed health, strength and spirits, but
the happiness of knowing that while he was taking a vacation for
himself he was endearing himself to every one at Camp.
Of course, every visitor is not an angel in disguise. We could not
expect that. Some come; keep to themselves, and depart, without having
caused one ripple on our surface. Yet we are glad to see them, to do all
we can for their comfort, and then to wish them Godspeed at their going.
A few come who are ripe with suggestions for the better way to run our
affairs. If it makes them happier to suggest, let them go ahead. It
won't hurt us any. When one is sure they are doing the right thing it
matters little what other people think. We keep on doing the right.
[Illustration]