You see that, after all, the keynote of life is LOVE. With it, the very poorest home is happy; without it, a palace is dreary. So poor old Nursie starts out by loving the Director, and right on down the line, finding good qualities in the worst and tamest boy there. She is devoutly thankful for the chance to spend some weeks with those who love her, despite her years and looks.
But we must not get mushy. So let's travel along and get to the starting point, or how shall we ever get there?
The day before we leave New York the expressman calls for our trunks, bags, etc., which ends our troubles as far as they are concerned. We never see anything of them until we get to Camp, yet they have been on their way just the same as we. There they stand on the Campus, waiting to be put into the tents. They are filled with good things to decorate and make these little homes look like college rooms.
The long-looked-for day is here at last. A farewell look around to see that we have forgotten nothing, we make a solemn promise to write regularly, to keep our teeth clean, not to eat much trash, to keep out of danger, not to get wet, to mind the Director and faculty; in fact, to be good, good, good.
Compared to the excitement at the depot, the Tower of Babel was a peaceful village. Of course, it is a fool comparison to compare the anxious parents' wanderings to that of a lot of hens who have just been decapitated, yet they will feel so terribly anxious at the parting moment. Every mother wants her boy looked after, never mind the rest. The boy himself doesn't want to be fussed over, and most awfully hates to be petted in public.
Yes, sir! I have known boys who would kick at being petted in public, and yet were perfectly willing to have some one lie down with them at night, telling them fairy stories until they were sleepy. They never entirely get over that, either, only the tables are reversed in later years, they being the ones to tell the fairy stories.
The gates are opened; one wild rush for the cars; mothers kissing the wrong boys in their excitement; everybody trying to get away from somebody else, the inevitable small boy with fiendish cunning letting go of your hand, shouts, laughter, tears and prayers, follow us as we step aboard the special train reserved for our Camp, "Good-bye, dear—Be a good boy—Write soon—Clean your teeth—Don't poke your head out of the window—Tell the Nurse about your medicine—Tell the faculty about your clothes—Ask the doctor to keep an eye on you—Let the Director 'phone me as soon as you get there"—these, and a thousand and one more questions and orders, follow us as we slowly glide out of the train shed.
We soothe the nervous parents, honestly promising them to look after their darlings, send them home with sometimes a heavy heart at the thought of parting from their children, yet thankful that they can give them advantages that they themselves could not always have in their youth. There are, of course, exceptions; many a father realizes that he has not the knack of training his boys and being wise, decides to let others do it for him. For what on earth is sadder than parent and child who do not understand each other, constantly pulling at the wrong end of the rope, growing farther and farther apart as the years go by.
Before the train is in the tunnel the little chaps are peeling off their collars, ties and all the clothes they dare, having been almost roasted, that hot June evening, before starting.