I said to my folks, “Pretty soon we’ll be making camp,” which we did about a quarter of a mile from the place we’d been the year before on Santa’s lake front property—Santa, as you know, being the great big laughing fat man who likes boys almost as much as Old Man Paddler does.
“Where’s Mrs. Santa?” Poetry asked that kind person, maybe remembering the blackberry pie she’d given us, and maybe missing her very friendly and extra special giggle, which we’d all liked to hear so well. I had looked forward to seeing her laugh with her eyes as well as hearing her laugh with her bird-like voice.
Santa, who was sitting in his big white boat which was beached near where we were making camp, and was helping Tom Till get his fishing pole and line ready for a fishing trip in the morning, said to Poetry, “She’s gone to California, but will be back early next week, before you boys have to go back to Sugar Creek.”
Well, it was almost time for the sun to go down, and we would have to get busy pitching our tents. Barry called to us from the station wagon which was parked close by, “Hey, Gang! Let’s get the tents up.... Hey, you, BILL! POETRY! TOM!”
We all beat it and pretty soon were working like boy scouts, doing what is called “making camp.” Barry’d picked a site not far from the lake, and also not too far from a wood pile, so a gang of boys who were lazy only when there was work to do, wouldn’t have to carry wood too far. Also he picked a place where there wouldn’t be too much shade so it wouldn’t be too damp, and yet there would be sunshine every day if there was any.
“Why don’t we put the tents under this big tree right here?” Circus asked, and Barry said, looking up at the tree, “See that great big half dead limb there?”
Dragonfly looked up and saw it, and said, “Sure, what of it?” and Little Jim spoke up and said, “The wind might blow some night,” and then turned and ran to where Big Jim was, about fifty feet away and who, with his jack-knife, was cutting green sticks of different sizes to help us make what Barry called an outdoor kitchen, which he said was going to be like the kind the Chippewa Indians used to use.
All of us were either giving or obeying orders, and in a few jiffies our tents were up and the outdoor kitchen was nearly finished.
“O.K., you guys—you and Poetry,” Barry ordered Poetry and me, “roll up a couple of those big round rocks over there, get a couple of forked sticks, and push them right into the fire.” We already had a roaring fire going in a place where it was safe to have one. No boy or anybody ought to start a fire in any forest or woods any time unless it is in a place where there is supposed to be one, and where it can’t spread, or a whole forest might get burned up.
“What on earth?” I thought, as Poetry and I grunted a round rock apiece up as close to the hot fire as we could, and then pushed them the rest of the way with forked sticks so we wouldn’t get burned, ourselves.