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."