Gideon Landon sat talking with his friend Franklin Haynes in the city
home of the former one cold evening in the early spring of 1912. You may
recall that they had been estranged for a time, but after the removal of
the misunderstanding, they became more intimate than before. They were
associated in various business deals and hardly a day passed without
their seeing each other.
The subject of their conversation on this occasion was the Boy Scouts of
America, in which both were deeply interested, for they knew that their
sons, of whom you have already learned something, had joined the
organization.
“That fact led me to look closely into it,” said Landon, “and the more I
learned about it the more I liked it; in my opinion the Boy Scouts mark
the grandest advance that has been made in all history by the youths of
any country. It will prove a mighty factor in the betterment of
mankind.”
“It has started with such a boom,” remarked Haynes, “that I fear its
collapse; such an enthusiasm as a rule soon expends itself; action and
reaction are equal and the higher the climb the greater the fall.”
“There will be nothing of the kind in this case, for there is no element
of weakness in the organization. It was originated and is controlled by
men who understand boy nature through and through, and who know how to
appeal to it. The very word ‘scout’ kindles that yearning which every
healthy boy feels for stirring incident. What youngster can resist the
call of the fragrant woods, the rugged climb of the mountains, the
rollicking plunge and splash in the crystalline waters, the trailing
through the cool twilight of the forest,—the fishing, canoeing, hunting
with a tinge of danger, the crackle of the camp fire, the stories of
adventure, the sweet dreamless sleep on the bed of spruce tops or balsam
boughs,—the songs of the birds——”
The friend raised his hand in protest,
“Cease, I pray thee. You remind me of the colored parson and his deacon
riding on mule back through the Arkansas lowlands. The deacon depicted
so eloquently the rapturous delicacy of browned ’possum, smothered in
rich gravy, that the preacher suddenly gasped and dived from his animal,
splitting a boulder apart with his head. As he climbed to his feet
unharmed but slightly stunned, he explained that he couldn’t stand the
ravishing memories called up by the deacon’s picture. And here you are
discoursing so fascinatingly on the out-door life, that I am tempted to
clap on my hat and overcoat and make a run of it for the pine woods.”
“I believe I should do it myself, if it were not too early in the
season.”
“Yes, I see you hiking for the woods; before you reached the Grand
Central you would switch off to Wall Street. You managed to worry
through a few weeks at Southport Island last summer, and then on the
first flimsy excuse you could think of, sneaked back to New York and
stayed there.”
“I am afraid you are right, Franklin; we didn’t begin early enough. No
danger of our boys making that blunder; those youngsters know how to
live and they will get all there is coming to them, when they plunge
into the wilds of Maine. Not only are their bodies trained but their
minds and consciences. I was impressed some weeks ago when the Blazing
Arrow Patrol held a meeting in my library and by invitation I was
present. I sat back and looked and listened. It was the regular Saturday
evening business session, when the Scout Master presided and the usual
order or schedule was followed. The one feature that caught me was when
the leader called upon each Boy Scout to tell what ‘good turn’ he had
done for some one during the day. I then learned that each boy is
pledged to do at least one such kindness for some person every
twenty-four hours. I felt a lump in my throat as the youths popped up
one after the other and modestly told their stories. All the incidents
were trifling: one had volunteered to do an errand for his father or
mother; another had helped an old lady across the street; a third had
assisted a small boy in carrying a big bundle; another, when challenged
to fight by a young ruffian, had turned his back without a word and
walked away. ‘And I knew all the time I could lick him,’ the scout added
with a flash of his eyes; still another had pointed out to a gentleman
the best way to reach the Waldorf-Astoria, and so it went.
“Think of it,—a boy on the lookout every day of his life for a chance
to do a good turn for some one else. Such a youngster is sure very soon
to beat that record; he will hit the four hundred mark every year;
that’s four thousand in ten years or twenty thousand in a half century.
Won’t that look fine, Franklin, on the credit side of the great Book
that will be opened at the Judgment Day? Ah, I fear the balance will be
on the other side of the account, so far as _I’m_ concerned.”
“And with me, too,” sighed his friend; “think what a different world
this will be when every one, even the children, is hunting for an
opportunity to do a kindness for a fellow creature.”
“I wonder if the Boy Scouts would admit us into their organization,”
said Landon with a wee bit of earnestness.
“We are both old enough, which is about our only qualification. We have
done many turns for others, but they hardly deserve to have the
adjective ‘good’ applied to them.”
“Well,” sighed the elder millionaire, “I am so pleased with the
principles of the Boy Scouts, and they have had such good effect upon
Alvin—”
“The same is to be said of Chester.”
“That I have decided to do the Blazing Arrow, the Stag and the Eagle
Patrols (which I believe are those that make up the troop) a good turn
which is so slight that it isn’t worth bragging about.”
“What is that?”
“You know I own the southern shore of Gosling Lake, which lies in the
lower part of Maine, a few miles from the bank of the Sheepscott. Our
club is about to put up a bungalow on that bank that will serve for
headquarters. Such of the members as wish will bunk there while fishing
this summer. It is the close season for game, beside which there is
little to be had in that section. I have invited Scout Master Hall to
spend the month of August there with his boys.”
“That is a long distance for them to travel and I’m afraid some cannot
afford the expense.”
“It shall not cost any one a cent. It is to be simply an outing for the
troop, who will be the guests of Alvin.”
“And Chester: I shall insist upon _that_.”
“As you please. Our boys will go to Southport early in July, or as soon
as their schools close. They and Mike Murphy will manage to worry
through several weeks with the motor launch, until the main party is
ready to hike for the woods and all have their picnic on Gosling Lake.”
“I gather from what you say that this will not be the usual camping-out
experience, in which the boys put up their tents in the depth of the
woods and provide for their own wants.”
“No; they will have something of the kind—to keep their hands in, as
may be said—during early spring and summer nearer their own homes. They
will continue to study woodcraft, undergo training, perfect their
discipline, and in short rough it like real scouts. They will be on
edge, and prepared to mix some of the conveniences of life with the
roughness of existence out of doors. Perhaps you and I will feel like
taking a turn at it ourselves, if they will consent.”
Haynes shook his head with a grim smile.
“As we agreed a few minutes ago, we have waited too long for that. Your
plan is admirable and does you credit.”
“Precious little. If it is what may be called a good turn, it is the
only one of which I have been guilty in more years than I like to think
of.”
“You say you have talked the plan over with Scout Master Hall?”
“He has spent several evenings with me discussing the scheme with Alvin,
Chester and myself. I may say it has been perfected; the boys are all
anxious to go, but a few of them will spend their vacation in their
homes. I believe we can count upon twenty guests at the clubhouse on
Gosling Lake.”
“Call it an even score; that will be twenty good turns that you will do
others; you can’t help piling up several additional ones during the dog
days, and will be able to make a creditable report when called upon.”
“I never thought of that, but I’m blessed if it doesn’t give me a
comfortable sensation. I tell you, Franklin, the Boy Scouts are the
Junior Freemasons of society and the most powerful organization ever
formed for the advancement of the idea of the fatherhood of God and the
brotherhood of men. I shall do all I can to help along the work.”
“And I am with you. But let’s stick to practical facts. You and I will
send the troop into the Maine woods, at the beginning of August, and see
that every possible provision is made at the bungalow for the boys.
Won’t that place quite a task on your shoulders?”
“None whatever. When the boys arrive at the lake they will find sleeping
quarters awaiting them in the clubhouse. If they think they are crowded,
some of them can sleep in the woods, and it will be just like the
majority to do so. Of course they will take their fishing tackle and
such articles as they are likely to need with them.”
“What about firearms?”
“The only one of which I have heard is a revolver of which Scout Master
Hall is the proprietor. He talks as if he knows something about the
weapon, but in my opinion he is bluffing and doesn’t know whether to aim
the butt or muzzle at a target. Bear in mind that the Boy Scouts don’t
live to kill, and the safety of our friends will never demand a gun or
pistol. Several for amusement may make a few bows and arrows, but not
much will be done in that line. They wear uniforms because they look
natty, and they wouldn’t be boys if they didn’t like to make a display.
Beyond question it helps to enforce discipline and assists in the
military drill which forms a part of their training.”
“Will the camp be provided with boats?”
“Two large canoes are to be sent there from Portland and they will be at
the disposal of the scouts at all times.”
“What of provisions and supplies?”
“You may be sure that we have guarded against famine. There is a track
of several miles from the lake through the woods to the main road over
which a strong team can be driven; thence the communication is easy with
Boothbay Harbor, where there is no end of provisions. A wagon will make
the trip once a week taking all that may be needed to the camp.”
“Those miles through the woods must be pretty tough traveling.”
“That cannot be denied, but one of the things in Maine and many other
states that will amaze you is the terrific roads over which teams seem
to have little difficulty in making their way. Last summer I strolled
along the boardwalk ground the southern end of Squirrel Island. I was
puzzled by numerous tracks in the black earth. There were ruts, hollows
and cavities that looked as if made by wagon wheels, but that appeared
impossible, for the course was choked with huge boulders and deep
depressions over which it seemed as if only a chamois or goat could
leap. While I was speculating and wondering I saw a horse coming toward
me, dragging a wagon in which sat a man in his shirt sleeves, driving.
Straight over those boulders and through the abrupt hollows, he plunged
and labored without halt or hesitation. Sometimes the hind wheels
bounced high in air with the front diving down, the body yawed and was
wrenched, and the driver wobbled from side to side and forward and back,
but he kept bravely on, and as he pitched and lurched and bumped past,
calmly called out that it was a pleasant day. Compared with that roadway
the few miles through the forest to Gosling Lake will be like a
macadamized turnpike.”
The conversation thus recorded may form the framework of the picture of
the camp of the Boy Patrols on Gosling Lake. Omitting the preliminaries
which otherwise might be necessary, let us step forward to that day,
early in August, 1912, succeeding the arrival of the lads at the
bungalow on this beautiful sheet of water in southern Maine.