Camping Part 4

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CHAPTER VIII.

Camping Trips.

One would imagine that being at Camp was enough for the average boy, but it is not always so. After the first novelty has worn off they want to go around seeing other points of interest. Therefore, the weekly Camping trips are planned for them.

We take one day each week, plan some place for each group of boys, who, in charge of their instructor, go out either for a tramping trip or by boat.

One group, for instance, plan to take boats and provisions, row up stream for several miles, make their camp on some island, cook their meals, rest up, swim, enjoy themselves by exploring the island, returning in time for supper.

The next group plan a walking trip; that is much harder on them than the trip by water. They must carry their own supplies, consisting of all kinds of food, potatoes, bread, meat, eggs, coffee, sugar, milk, matches, paper, fruit, besides a cup for each boy, a frying pan, coffee pot and pail for water.

Here you see the way boys act more than on any other trip. The unselfish chap will cheerfully fill his pockets with raw potatoes, try and roll a can of tomatoes, a pound of b.u.t.ter and half dozen eggs altogether, in his rubber coat; put the matches in his tin cup and stagger away. What does it matter if the can of tomatoes does object to being smeared with the b.u.t.ter or the eggs protest at the undue pressure that is put upon them?

When some one yells at him that a streak of yellow is running down his left leg he retorts with, "I don't care if it is. Lots of fellows have streaks of yellow, but they don't want to show it."

We clean him up, show him how to pack hard substances together, and the advantage of putting frail objects by themselves; also that b.u.t.ter is apt to melt if stored away inside one's blouse. That crowd is started on its way quite happy, although the lazy boy is grumbling at having to carry the coffee-pot and frying-pan, while the little chap is leaving a trail of potatoes behind him.

Then there is the lazy lot who don't care to walk, and don't want to row a boat. What do they want?

They will take their share of grub and go up to the ball field. Mind you, they demand some of everything, particularly the food that is easy of preparation. The one and only idea that seems to percolate through their brains is to get a whole lot of food; to make as little effort as possible; to help themselves; to fuss over everything; to be on the verge of starting a half dozen times, only to come back again with some new demand, just like people who decide to take short trips, they know not where, just to get away.

For the rest of the day you may be sure that whenever you look up towards the baseball field you will see one or another of that special party about to come down to the house for more supplies, or just to see what is going on.

How much happier they would have been, had they gone with the crowd!

Nine times out of ten if you let a boy have his way, he is not satisfied in the end, and then is ready to put the blame on the country, the lake, the faculty, the dog, but not himself.

There was another lot of boys who were always under the impression that the stay-at-homes were going to have so much better time, so much better food, something better than the rest of the crowd, the sort of chaps that are a little afraid of missing a trick.

Their special stunt was to ask the doctor to look at their ears or throat, complain of an all-gone feeling in the pit of the stomach, a slightly dizzy feeling, toothache or cramps.

When a boy really makes up his mind to stay home there is no limit to his ingenuity in thinking up some plausible excuse. It would take a Philadelphia lawyer to get the best of him.

The only way to take care of those poor little, sick, helpless chaps is to have the cook prepare the plainest kind of fare for them. Leave them beautifully alone and the day will drag along on leaden wings. Long before the rest of the boys return they will be heartily tired of playing sick, and the next camping trip that is planned will be among the first lot of boys to want to go on a long jaunt.

There is heaps of fun in cooking your own dinner. What does it matter if the chicken is scorched on the outside while raw in the middle? The potatoes with crisp skins but underdone in the centre? Corn just warmed through? Coffee hot if muddy? Paper plates? b.u.t.ter mixed with pepper?

Salt mixed with sugar? Water and milk blending beautifully together?

Bread and pie in close embrace? Pickles and jam exchanging flavors? As one good little boy said: "What did it matter? Even if you separated them ever so carefully, they were bound to mix up in your stomach; so if they were mixed up beforehand it saved time and trouble afterwards."

You couldn't serve such a meal as the above indoors. It wouldn't taste right, and it would not look right. It needs the open air, with a background of green forest; a gentle breeze blowing the smoke in one's eyes as you watch the fish frying; the cool water at your feet inviting you to jump in, to cool your fevered brow and wash some of the smudge off yourself at the same time. To say nothing of a crowd of hungry boys who have left their manners and fussy notions at home! Here they can get along without a waiter standing at the back of their chair, without an anxious mother coaxing them to eat the tenderloin, so long as they can see their full share coming to them, they are happy.

I know lots of boys who at home are waited upon hand and foot. Yet these same congenial spirits can work like Trojans when out for a day's sport, can build dandy fireplaces with no better material than sand wet with water and bound with cobble stones.

The same boys can cook a meal fit for a king. I don't mean the King of the Cannibal Islands, but a real ruler, because from what I have read the cannibals are not so very particular. Anything that comes their way, so long as it will make a large, juicy meal, will do. They don't care whether the meal is composed of a real good, young missionary or an old tough trader. They would even take a party of elderly spinsters and cook them for quite a while, adding some extra seasoning.

But these boys I have in mind can cook fish, chicken, potatoes and coffee in a way to make you thankful you are living, both before and after the meal.

After the meal is over the question of washing up comes before the board. Most boys would prefer to throw the whole business in the lake, but, having pledged ourselves to see that they were returned promptly to the kitchen, we cannot allow that.

As usual, there are always one or two who are more willing than the rest. They start in to sc.r.a.pe the debris together, put water on the fire to get hot, and in many ways show that there was lost to mankind a good girl when that boy was created.

No matter where one travels, Nature is charming in her virgin freshness.

Then look at the difference as soon as human beings step in. The ground is torn up, the flowers trampled underfoot, trees chopped down, empty cans left lying around, on every side upset, and untidiness! Wouldn't it be nice if we just tried to leave the woods and sh.o.r.e as nearly like we found it, not an eyesore, but a pleasure to go back to again?

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CHAPTER IX.

Odds and Ends, Including Prayers.

When the days begin to grow hotter and longer most people plan to leave the City. Whether they go to the seash.o.r.e or to the mountains, to the lake district or some quiet village, they carefully (or so it seems to me) put away their religion along with their winter clothes.

You will find people who are regular attendants at their respective churches all winter long staying away from church, Sunday after Sunday, throughout the summer.

It makes not the slightest difference whether Jew or Gentile, Catholic or Scientist, they all stay away more or less during the summer, and even at Camp, when the call to prayers is sounded, they come in a half-hearted way.

Can one really get along for months without religion? Have they soaked up, absorbed, into their systems enough during the cold weather to tide them over the warm? Can the average church-goer, no matter what church he goes to, store away in his heart and brain enough religion to last, or must he keep on returning to the Fountainhead to be renewed and refreshed?

As I said, the boys straggled in to listen to a true man of G.o.d, but some of them came because they had promised to do so, a few just because they really wanted to be there, and the rest because it is human nature to follow a leader.

What excuses we always have ready on hand to show why we have not gone to the House of G.o.d! It is too hot, it is too cold, it is dusty, it is wet, no clothes fit to wear, the Sunday dinner to cook, too lazy to get up, all these and a lot more, just because the House of G.o.d stands with doors wide open!

You can walk in without the trouble of going to the ticket office for a reserved seat. You don't have to stand in line, glad to buy a standing-room-only ticket. If you desire music, it is there in its purest form for you to listen to. Do you care for singing? Then there you can hear anthems, hymns and oratorios as they never are sung anywhere else.

It needs the sacred silence of the House of G.o.d, the subdued coloring, the general air of peace and holiness to bring these things fully to your heart, yet you have to be coaxed to go there.

The House of G.o.d has always seemed to me like the house of a very dear friend. Of course, being so far away, we don't think we must pay our respects in person to the Lord. If we have a dear friend (even though full of faults) we keep in touch with him, call upon him, let him know in many ways that we are his very dear friend. Then why not go to the House of G.o.d for the same purpose, with the same kind feeling in our heart?

Then the boys sat in silence while the man of G.o.d prayed for them, for the good of their souls, that they might grow up doing at all times, whether in company or alone, the right thing in the sight of the Lord, blessed them, sent them on their way, with purer thoughts to help them out of the many pitfalls that beset the feet of youth.

After services are ended we allow the boys to play games. Of what use would it be to compel them to sit quiet all day reading books that they did not care for? Besides, a forced religion isn't worth powder to blow it up.

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.