In the midst of the fun we hear the bugle again. That is the swimming call; so hurry with your bats, tennis rackets and any other thing you may be doing at this particular moment. Get your swimming trunks and rush down to the dock.
Now for fun. Those who can swim, how gracefully they dive in, swim under water, and just when your heart is in your mouth for fear they are drowned up they come in the opposite direction.
The boys who are not very good swimmers make up for skill by lots of splashing about in the shallow water. They duck each other, try to float, and act for all the world like a school of young porpoises. I myself like to go out with them. They take me for a friendly old mother whale and climb all over me, never so happy as when they get me down under the water. Then sometimes I take a large, roomy boat, invite them in and pole them around the lake to their enjoyment and my own, too.
But this chapter tells of routine, so we must obey the whistle when it blows. That means all out, and any one caught in after that is kept out for two or three times—about the worst kind of punishment you could give a boy.
Fortunately, the boys have very little dressing to do, a pair of running pants and a pair of sneakers being considered full dress. Long before the bugle tells them to form in line they are ready and hungry.
This ends the morning. We have been warned to write home to parents, but the study period after dinner is the time appointed for that. After a bountiful dinner we see them prepared to write. The big boy will write willingly to some of his folks and loves to write to the girls. He does not have to be reminded that Wednesday and Sunday are letter writing days. The middle sized chap needs a little urging, but the little bear is the one who forgets. He may be so homesick that you dare hardly speak to him on that subject, yet he has to be forced to write regularly.
There are exceptions, of course. Take little Jimsey, for instance, whom I found crying. The minute I looked at him I knew right away what kind of malady he was afflicted with. Says I to him: "Jimsey, old boy, have you written home to your family yet?" "No," he answered, "I don't know how to spell all the words right. You see, I have never been away from home before and never had to write letters to my mother." "Oh, if that's all that ails you, I am the boss letter writer. So, come along with me, young man, and you can dictate and I will write." "Can I do that?" he wanted to know. "Of course you can. The Director will say it is all right." And this is what Jimsey wrote to his mother, at least he dictated and I wrote it:
"Dear Mother, Darling:
"We are here, and I am happy, but so homesick to see you. Do you feel homesick to see me? Let me know. I never thought the world was such a big, lonely place. Is it because you are not with me to hold my hand? I am going to be brave and bite my under lip, and as Biddy says 'Keep a stiff upper lip.' She says half the real truly battles in life have been won by folks keeping up their courage. I don't want to come home, but, mother, if you are passing this way, won't you stop in for a little while?"