Let us hope that when fall comes and they take their religion (they have so gently packed away in camphor) out it will not show any signs of decay, no moths or other evidences of dissolution, but a bright, loving light to lead their footsteps to His Throne.
Sunday at Camp is much like any other day, excepting that the laundry is given out and the outgoing wash collected.
The boys form into line under the direction of the faculty, are sent down in companies of ten according to their numbers, to the laundry room, where they receive the clean wash, consisting of personal clothes, besides sheets, towels and pillow slips, take them up to their tents, put them in their trunks, excepting what they put into immediate use.
After breakfast they gather up all the soiled wash, make out a duplicate list, and have them ready when the man calls at each tent for them. Quite a clever system that works out all right.
Sunday afternoon is spent on the water or some game is started up. The usual swimming is indulged in, and by supper time everybody is ready to peck a bit of food, even if they have dined later and had a most bountiful repast.
In the evening the fun begins. Generally on Sunday the Literary Society has an open meeting. Everything goes, from a banjo solo to an imitation fight between two noted prize-fighters.
The little boys recite, the big ones give monologues, our celebrated orchestra renders stirring selections, and the entire Camp joins in the chorus.
The instructors cheerfully help out. It matters not what you ask them to do! Sing a solo? Why, yes; he will be delighted. Sing a duet? Pleased to oblige such an appreciative audience. Join in a quartette? Why, nothing would give him greater happiness.