After supper, a roaring camp-fire was built, and by this time we all were very well acquainted, and gradually came out of our shells. The masters were plied with questions, and yarns were spun. Perhaps the pleasantest feature of camp life was the evening gathering around the blazing logs, and the nine o'clock horn always seemed to toot ahead of time. The brother of one of the masters had spent a year among the mines and ranches of Colorado, and his graphic descriptions and thrilling tales were admirably adapted to our willing ears. Songs we always had. They may not have ranked high as literary productions; any lack in this respect, however, was more than made up by their spirited rendering. Here is one, to the tune of "It's a way we have at old Harvard":
"It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,
It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,
It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,
To pass the time away.
If I'd a son or a ward, sir,
A 'dig,' a prig, or a bard, sir,—
I'd send him to Camp Harvard, sir,
To pass the time away.
"For we'd like to have you know, sir,