SUNDAY IN CAMP EBERHART

It was Sunday in camp, and the boys were making the most of the extra half-hour before breakfast by especially careful toilets. Clean shirts and khaki trousers were gotten out, hair was carefully combed, and some of the more particular fellows even went so far as to put on a necktie. The leaders were busy at their shaving when assembly rang out from the hill. There was a wild scramble from every direction, for assembly meant ten minutes till breakfast, and on Sunday morning breakfast was especially welcomed.

The order of the day was somewhat changed on Sundays. The regular detail was omitted, and likewise the morning devotions, but a wide-awake morning service, at which time some visitor from the city would talk, was held at eleven o'clock. Camp inspection was changed from one o'clock to nine, and was more rigid than on other days. Somewhere back in the seasons past a precedent had been established that on Sundays camp must be in perfect order, in so far as inspection could determine. So it was with the greatest of difficulty that the pennant was awarded for the best appearing tent. It was a common thing to not be able to award it all because of general excellence. Woe to the careless fellow in any tent who was the cause of his tent being rated low in Sunday inspection!

There were no Sunday rules in camp. Each camper did anything that his conscience told him was proper for a Sunday, and this made it anything but a dull day. In the morning after inspection the fellows would read or sit around in groups chatting about the events of the coming week, or of the last baseball game, or the possibilities of winning a Rag before the next stunt night. Others wrote letters, for it was the custom that every boy write a letter home on Sunday. Sometimes this was a very difficult task. At breakfast the "chief" had warned them against writing home too brightly colored accounts of yesterday's accident, explaining that it would do no good, and only uselessly worry parents. He told the three boys most interested that he had already written to their parents, giving them all the necessary details, and that he would advise them to wait until they got home to tell the story.

Bill Ruthford, Durbin, and the Twins were sitting in the library hard at work on their weekly letters home. "Portage" was giving an account of the wonders of water-ball. Vincent was making application for renewed funds. Durbin was proudly telling his fond mother how he had sunburned his shoulders until he could not sleep nights, and how he had broken the rowing record for one mile, single.

Bill sat listlessly looking out of the window, tapping the table with his pen. Now and then he would read the three or four lines he had written, only to arrive at the same thought each time, namely: what else could he say. He had said he was well, the weather was fine, and he was having a great time. That was what he had said in every letter since he had come to camp.

As he sat trying to think of just one more news item, a sheep walked slowly across the field in front of the lodge. Suddenly Bill's face brightened with an inspiration and he wrote hastily, "There is a beautiful sheep just now feeding on the tender grass in the field below." He cautiously looked about to see if any one had seen him write that; then suddenly he snatched the sheet from the table, crumpled it into a wad, and sailed it across the room. Vincent looked up in surprise.

"What's the matter, Bill?" he asked.

"O, gee, I haven't got a thing to write about. What are you writing about, anyway?"

"O, I'm just telling about the stunts last night, and about 'Baldy' and the ball-game, and about old crazy Thomson, and about our trip to-morrow to dig up that Indian grave, and about Cooper getting his Rags, and -" "And-a, O, yes, I nearly forgot all those things," said Bill, as he took a second sheet of paper and began again.

After a long and laborious attempt he asked "Portage" to let him read his letter, so he could get started again.

"I'm all right if I don't stop," explained Bill, "but if I stop writing, all I can think of is the weather." After he had read the letter, he handed it back with the remark:

"And-a, say, 'Portage,' you're a peach at letter writing. I couldn't write one like that in a hundred years. Say, I'll give you my reel if you'll let me copy yours. What do you say?"

The bargain was made, and before long Bill Ruthford was posting the longest, newsiest letter that he had ever written.

At eleven the fellows gathered in answer to the bugle-call and went in a body to a cool spot in the woods, where the morning service was held. The old graphophone was wound up and the favorite sacred music of the camp was played. Then came a splendid, wide-awake talk that was filled with excellent illustrations that just suited the occasion.

"Gee, that was the best preachin' I ever heard," declared "Love" on his way back to camp.

Dinner was the next attractive event of the day, and was quite a social occasion. The chef loaded down each plate with such a variety of "good eats" that every boy was happy. One poor, unfortunate lad dropped his loaded tray, much to his embarrassment, and was promptly teased nearly beyond endurance about "letting his chicken fly away." Durbin didn't care for his soup, so he traded it to a neighbor for one of his hot rolls. Studley, who was just a little under the weather, sold his ice-cream to Vincent, and Longley turned his delicious leg of fried chicken over to "Shrimp" for his sweet pickle. That promptly called down a shower of jokes about "what's the matter with a fellow that's so crazy over sweet pickles."

"And-a did you smell that sweet letter he got yesterday?" questioned Bill.

"No, but I saw him sitting off in the woods this morning writing young book to some one."

"O, that was my diary," answered Longley.

"What did you put those two two-cent stamps on it for, then?" asked "Deak," who had charge of the outgoing mail.

Shortly after dinner a crowd of the fellows went with Mr. Verne to ramble in the big woods, and to gather flowers, and to name some trees, -- incidentally, of course, to feast on the rich, ripe dewberries that were so plentiful just then.

Cooper and Dale went off together to find a few new birds, so that Dale could identify his required number. The assortment of books on the library shelves was thinned out, and every late magazine had mysteriously disappeared. In a short time the lodge and tents were deserted.

"I've learned more about this great out-of-doors in two weeks than I ever knew in all my life before," Cooper was saying to Dale as they sat on a big log far back in the woods and ate berries from a hatful of the fruit they had gathered.

"I didn't like it at first," was Dale's reply. "It took so much time to do all the work."

"Yes, but don't you think it's fine, the spirit of 'help the other fellow' that's in the camp? I believe that is why fellows out here have such a good time," replied Cooper.

"I never help the other fellow much, though," said Dale. "It's too much trouble."

"That's why you are so unhappy and cross and cranky," replied Cooper, not unkindly. "Say, Dale, who do you believe is having the very best time of any one in this camp?" Dale thought a moment, then said, reluctantly, "Why, the Twins, I suppose. They are always laughing and joking, and are at least the most popular fellows."

"And the reason is that they have a good time making fun for the rest of us. They are unselfish to the core."

Dale dug his foot restlessly in the soft dirt. He was thinking. At last he raised his head and looked Copper square in the eye.

"Mr. Cooper, do you think I could ever be like those kids - I mean happy and helpful and - and unselfish?"

Cooper laughed his good-natured laugh and slapped Dale on the shoulder.

"Why, of course you could, boy, just like them; but to do it you will have to forget absolutely that there is any Dale Worth. You know, after all, I think our religion is mostly just being happy and contented, and making other folks have a good time. You know when I get out here in these old woods I just feel so good that I want to make everybody else happy. You want to bury those frowns and those mean, sharp words, and get into the spirit of nature, then you will begin to live. When you feel like that you will have the best time in the world."

"I've been thinking about it all day," went on Dale, "that story we heard at the service this morning, about the old lady that always picked up all the broken glass she found in the streets and put it into her pocket, and when the policeman questioned her about it she told him she did it just to keep the boys from cutting their bare feet. That was great, wasn't it, 'Coop'? I'll bet she was happy." Dale suddenly stood up, threw back his shoulders, and said: "Let's go back to camp. I want to look for some glass myself."

At three the boats were released, and those who cared to were allowed to row around quietly until supper time.

Longley and "Shrimp" set off to view their different birds' nests, for there were a great many that they were watching from day to day.

"I wonder if the young king birds have flown yet," said "Shrimp." "I heard an awful commotion down by the cat-tails this morning before church. I'll bet my hat a turtle has been at that blackbird's nest."

"We mustn't tell about the bittern's nest yet, until the eggs hatch, because we want to see the little ones first," cautioned Longley. "It's great, the way the mother tries to hide in the old, dead cat-tails, isn't it? She is just exactly the same color, and her long, slender neck is the same shape as those dead reeds. Did you notice that?"

It's too bad we missed that pair of loons. That would have been a real discovery for us, wouldn't it?"

"We certainly have seen a lot of new things this year, haven't we? If it wasn't for our honor system we wouldn't care a cent for such things, would we?"

So the hunt for new things went on, each day surrendering some new secret to the boys to add to their ever-increasing store of practical knowledge of nature.

At supper time "Love" was late, and no one had seen him all afternoon. They were just sitting down to supper, when in he came, panting and puffing. His face fell when he saw he was too late and had forfeited his meal. He held his hands cupped together, and went straight to Mr. Verne.

"I'm so sorry I'm late. I never meant to be, but I found this bug or animal, I don't know which, and I knew you would want to see it, so I stopped to try and find something to bring it in." He cautiously opened his hands, giggling all the while. Something jumped out on to Mr. Verne's potato salad. In a second there was a crowd around Mr. Verne. Everybody wanted to see the strange animal with long, slender feelers and claw-like legs. Mr. Verne turned a cup over him and sent the boys back to finish their suppers. He instructed "Love" to wash his hands and get his supper.

"What order is he in?" asked "Love" as he came back with his food. But no one seemed to be able to classify it until the "bug book" was gotten out and carefully examined. It turned out to be a mole-cricket and very rare, so "Love" added another name to his list of discoveries.

Just at twilight all the campers assembled on the beach for the evening devotion. It was a time that was looked forward to by every one, partly because it was novel and partly because it was really enjoyed. The entire camp embarked in the boats and headed straight for the middle of the lake. There the bows were all tied together and all the boats pulled in like the spokes of a great wheel. The graphophone was wound up and the favorite records played, the boys joining in on the chorus of the more familiar songs. Then came the simple, straight-forward talk that was especially related to camp-life and drawn from some passage of the Bible. One night it was birds, another water, another stars. Out there on the calm, beautiful lake, the stars over-head, and good companions all around, many a fellow opened his heart and let it the great truths of the Christ. There was nothing weak or "sissy" about it. It was just a strong, manly appeal for the better things in a boy's life. Then, with a prayer to the Great All-Father, the little service was over and the boats returned to camp.