HOLIDAYS IN CAMP.
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.
In the United States, even in the coolest, most northerly portion, the summers are long and hot; the July days are scorching and the nights are suffocating in the crowded cities and larger towns; with August comes a little change, but then come the exhausting ‘dog-days,’ when, though the mercury will not run so high in the thermometer, the atmosphere is as unpleasant as if it were still July.
Those who can afford it—and many who cannot do so, but fancy they must do as their wealthy neighbours do—begin in June to flit to seaside, mountain, or Springs hotel, where they pay as high a rent for a tiny room as would give them a whole house in town. Here the ladies and children stay for such a time as suits them, or as suits papa’s purse. If the hotel chosen is within a reasonable distance of the men’s places of business, they will flock there on Saturday night, and hasten away early on Monday morning. At some resorts, certain trains or boats have the local name, for the season, of ‘husbands’ train’ or boat, as the case may be. The maidens who have no lover to look for at this time are on the alert to see what ‘new men’ Messrs So-and-so will bring with them this Saturday; for there is an appalling dearth of eligible men—eligible, if only as escorts or partners at tennis or cotillon at most of these summer resorts. Between Monday and Saturday the ladies amuse themselves with fancy-work, gossip, reading of light novels, fault-finding with the meals, or with the noise other people’s children make, and flirting with the men who, taking their own holiday, are remaining at the hotel for a week or two. Then, too, there is usually, in so mixed an assembly as must necessarily be found at even the most select hotel, at least one person who has something queer, perhaps no worse than simply great eccentricity, about her, and so furnishes material to her fellow-boarders for endless speculation and gossip.
Hotel-life is so distasteful to many and so expensive, that there has of late arisen another way of summering—camping-out; but not necessarily tenting, though some prefer that. All over the northern portion of the land there are springing up like mushrooms roughly-built cottages, which are only better than a tent in that they are water-tight, have hard floors, and are not apt to be blown down at the first stiff gale. These cottages are often unpainted, or but slightly so, and have two rooms, small, down-stairs, and one large or two small rooms above; if the latter, the partition is rarely more than six feet high. When the campers are a mixed party, not simply father, mother, and children, the young men sleep down in the living-room, and the up-stairs beds are curtained off by curtains or screens. The cottage is always erected near water of some sort, old ocean having the preference, and a pinewood on the edge of a pond or lake is also popular. I remember one such spot, in Maine, where some friends of mine passed a very delightful vacation; it was a pine-grove not many miles from the city of Augusta, on the very edge of one of those hundreds of fresh-water lakelets which dot Maine so thickly. The owner of the land had erected five of these simple houses, and rented them to persons of the highest respectability, one being a High School teacher, one a Universalist minister, one an editor, and so on. The rental was very moderate—at the rate of a dollar a day for those who only wished to remain one or two weeks; but at a very much less figure if they took a cottage for the two summer months. This price included the use of all the ice they needed for the preservation of their food, and a rowboat which would hold eight persons. The campers brought their own furniture; and it is really surprising how few things one actually needs to live in comfort for a month. The pond which bears the Indian name—more easy to pronounce than to write—of Cobbasacontee, is well stocked with fish, and is dotted all over with pretty little islands, which are capital places to land and build a fire to cook the fish you have just caught. If you have taken the precaution to bring with you a coffee-pot as well as your frying-pan, and some coffee, sugar, condensed milk, pepper, salt, and buttered bread, you can soon have a meal fit for a king—a hungry king.
How well I remember one such excursion I made two years ago! There were five in the party, none very young, and none at all in love with any one present. We two ladies were afraid to trust ourselves in the tiny sailboat which made part of our fleet of two, so we and my friend’s nephew started off in the rowboat. Hardly had we got well out, however, when the sailor of the party found that his sail was not fitted to the boat it was in; and nothing would suit the men but that sails and oars must change places while passengers sat still; and in spite of our unspoken qualms and our glances of mistrust slily exchanged with one another, we had to go under full sail after all. And how the wind did justify its title of ‘fickle as a woman,’ that morning! For a few moments we would scud over the water in a rather alarming style, considering that our skiff was capable of holding only about six persons; then, after having dipped our gunwale quite as often as I liked, the breeze would vanish, the sail would hang limp and lifeless, and we were becalmed. The other boat was soon far ahead; and while we were yet within sight of our camp, the occupants had reached our destination, and were hauling in the fish with most provoking rapidity. During one of our spasmodic, rapid skims down the pond, we disturbed a mother-loon. Laughing at us in the strange, weird manner peculiar to that sort of water-fowl, she swam down the shore, trying to allure us to chase her, and not believe that there was a nest full of little loons, less hardy than the young one which was paddling along beside her, among those long sedges from which she had started out with such haste as our boat drew near them. For as much as a quarter of mile she lured us—so she put it—away from her home, answering us when we tried to imitate her tones. Did you ever hear a loon laugh in the dusk stillness of a warm summer night? It has a queer, eerie sound—a lonesome, unhappy sound. After much tacking and drifting, we came at last to a little island where two of my friend’s city neighbours, a minister and a learned judge, were camping in a tiny cottage, set in a most lovely spot, a tangle of underbrush and blackberry vines growing up to the very doorway. Little brown squirrels—so tame that at our approach they ran down the trees to see what we were doing in their domain—sprang about from tree to tree, or scampered over the soft grass, quite aware that no one would harm them while fishes were so plenty; birds twittered and sung; Eden could not have been more peaceful. There are scores of such islands to be hired or bought for a mere song.
Did you ever inspect a house kept by the average man? I have heard that men when camping are rarely in the habit of washing dishes any oftener than they can help; and since I saw the little kitchen attached to that cottage, I am sure some men, some learned men, don’t worry over such trifles as greasy pans or grimy tins! The judge and his comrade had gone out for a day’s fishing; we had met them on our way down, and they cordially bade us make ourselves perfectly at home in their abode. We did so. They sent us a message, a few days later, that they wished the ladies would visit their house again. I know they hardly recognised their own cups and saucers when they went to get supper that night!
The furnishing of most of these cottages is very primitive. Comfortable beds are a sine quâ non to those who are accustomed to hair-mattresses and pliant springs, and one can sleep sweetly and restfully on a bed of dry clean hay. It is not much trouble to carry empty ticks, and dry grass or, still better, pine-needles can be had for the gathering. Blankets and thick quilts must be on hand, for, no matter what the days are, it is sure to be chilly the moment the sun is well out of sight. A cot-bed is also necessary—for friends who, in town, cannot find time to visit one, will gladly travel fifty miles to camp a day or two with their cronies who have a cottage—not only for use at night, but to be converted into a lounge in the daytime; and of course there will be hammocks to sling under the trees or on the piazza. There is always a farmer near who will gladly sell—at city prices—butter, eggs, and milk; and as most of these lakes are well stocked with fish, black bass, pickerel, trout, or perch—or if the camp is on the seashore, there are mackerel, lobsters, clams, and greedy, open-mouthed sculpin, which can devour more bait without being hooked than any ten other fish, but which make a fairly good chowder when enough are caught—no one needs suffer from hunger.
Several pretty groves on the Kennebec and Penobscot rivers are utilised for camp-meetings. Here, for a week, usually in the latter part of August—when the farmers are done haying—or the beginning of September, religious services are held morning, noon, and night, popular preachers or exhorters being invited to take part. The grounds immediately around the spot where the services are held are generally owned by a stock Company, and the regulations for the preservation of good order are very strict, and rigidly enforced: lights must be out at a given hour; unseemly mirth or secular music is not tolerated on Sunday; the sale of intoxicating liquors is not permitted at any time, nor the use of them in private tents or cottages, if it can be detected by the patrol force always on hand. These rules are absolutely necessary to prevent the freedom of camp-life from degenerating into license; for many young folks go to camp-meeting who care very little for the religious part of the affair.
The Methodists have the largest number of camp-grounds; but other denominations are more or less fond of them. I once visited a Spiritualist camp-ground on one of these Maine rivers; and a damper, more ghostly spot could not well be imagined; everything and everybody looked mouldy, and one might, without much stretch of the imagination, expect to see a materialised spirit pop up anywhere. I understand, however, that there were never any ‘manifestations’ at camp; it was only held for the dissemination of their peculiar faith.
A party of about a dozen boys and four or five men have gone for the past six years to a little island in a New Hampshire lake not far from Lake Winnipisaukee, which is a favourite summer resort on account of its beautiful scenery, to pass the months of July and August. Their temporary dwelling is very primitive, not much more than a roof and three walls, for they intend to spend all their time in the open air. Every Sunday afternoon these boys have held religious services; they have a small parlour organ, and form a choir themselves. They intend this year, if possible, to have their choir properly vested, for their service is according to the Book of Common Prayer. There is not a church of any sort within a long distance, for this portion of the State is rather thinly settled. It is of New Hampshire that residents of other States say that the farmers there have to sharpen the noses of the sheep, in order that they may crop the grass between the rocks, as New Hampshire is all rocks. The natives attend the boys’ service as a treat, though, as the church is not very well known there, they are not quite sure that they approve of the ceremonial. The service is not always lay, however; several distinguished clergy and one or two bishops have visited this little camp and have preached for them. One of the boys told me that during these six years there had been but one Sunday when it rained so hard that they had to hold service in their hut. Doubtless, some day there will be a permanent chapel there.
And oh, what good times the little ones have at these camps! No fine clothes to be kept clean; no attractive but forbidden alley children to be avoided; no danger of being run over; no cross dogs to fear; and no venturing out in the water without the knowledge of mamma or nurse, for here no one is too busy to have one eye on the little mischiefs; but as much paddling about on the brink of the lake or ocean as would delight any small heart. And then, too, for mamma’s side of the question: no candy-shops to draw the pennies out of her pocket, or the tears from disappointed eyes; no coaxing ‘Can’t we go play with So-and-so?’ no scarlet fever or measles to be caught from some neighbour’s progeny; no evil influences to be feared for the older boys and girls; and no parties to be made for or attended by the children.
Mother Nature is a great restorer, and a few days of uninterrupted intercourse with her do more to renew the wasted health or relaxed energies, than as many weeks of dress and gaiety at a fashionable resort; and so sensible people are becoming more and more convinced.