Camping

by Alexandra Agusta Guttman Lockwine

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.