water for a scrub and plunge, brush their teeth and get their clothes on. By that time the bugle calls to them to get into line, ready to march to the table for breakfast.

All who are not on line-in will find themselves marching round the Campus, which is a block square, several times. Good exercise for them, at the same time teaching them the truth about "Time and tide waiting for no man."

Another good meal awaits us, plenty of good, substantial food, that will put strength into us and at the same time tickle our palate.

After breakfast we find that it is not all play at Camp. Some are inclined to loaf; some would like to wander around; others, with some definite object in view, plan to go out for practice runs or games. But, hold on, noble youths, you have slept in your beds, have you not? Well, like Mr. Squeers' method, we will ask you to spell "bed," then go and make it up. Also you have upset your tents. Again, you are given gracious permission to tidy them also.

Here we have no willing mothers, no handy chambermaids, to put everything in apple-pie order. This is truly Camp, and you are simply soldiers Camping.

The Director may have an orderly to do his work, but, as for the rest of the Campers, it is every man for himself, from the instructors down to the smallest boy. Each and every one must do his share. Beds are made, tents swept out, clothes hung up, and when the bugle again calls "Inspection" each and every boy must be at his tent.

The Director, accompanied by his staff, inspects, marking for and against each tent. Accordingly, there is keen competition between the boys to see who has the most orderly tent for the season. Prizes are awarded to the tent that has the best record. All this conduces to neat habits, and lets the boys see there is more to be gained by doing the right than the wrong thing.

Again the bugle calls for "Assembly." This is one of the most interesting events of the day. Here we can all sit under the shade of beautiful trees and listen to the orders being given out; the schedule of the games to be played; the list of those to be punished for breaking the rules, etc., etc. On this occasion the bad boy, knowing full well that he has been marked for punishment and is going to get it anyway, does a little more to amuse his friends while he annoys those in office.

As soon as the orders are given the boys are dismissed, some to go on the field for a game of tennis, others for baseball, others for walking trips. For the little boys there is tether ball and the junior baseball diamond. In fact, whatever is for the big boys is good for his little brothers, excepting football.

In the midst of the fun we hear the bugle again. That is the swimming call; so hurry with your bats, tennis rackets and any other thing you may be doing at this particular moment. Get your swimming trunks and rush down to the dock.

Now for fun. Those who can swim, how gracefully they dive in, swim under water, and just when your heart is in your mouth for fear they are drowned up they come in the opposite direction.

The boys who are not very good swimmers make up for skill by lots of splashing about in the shallow water. They duck each other, try to float, and act for all the world like a school of young porpoises. I myself like to go out with them. They take me for a friendly old mother whale and climb all over me, never so happy as when they get me down under the water. Then sometimes I take a large, roomy boat, invite them in and pole them around the lake to their enjoyment and my own, too.

But this chapter tells of routine, so we must obey the whistle when it blows. That means all out, and any one caught in after that is kept out for two or three times—about the worst kind of punishment you could give a boy.

Fortunately, the boys have very little dressing to do, a pair of running pants and a pair of sneakers being considered full dress. Long before the bugle tells them to form in line they are ready and hungry.

This ends the morning. We have been warned to write home to parents, but the study period after dinner is the time appointed for that. After a bountiful dinner we see them prepared to write. The big boy will write willingly to some of his folks and loves to write to the girls. He does not have to be reminded that Wednesday and Sunday are letter writing days. The middle sized chap needs a little urging, but the little bear is the one who forgets. He may be so homesick that you dare hardly speak to him on that subject, yet he has to be forced to write regularly.

There are exceptions, of course. Take little Jimsey, for instance, whom I found crying. The minute I looked at him I knew right away what kind of malady he was afflicted with. Says I to him: "Jimsey, old boy, have you written home to your family yet?" "No," he answered, "I don't know how to spell all the words right. You see, I have never been away from home before and never had to write letters to my mother." "Oh, if that's all that ails you, I am the boss letter writer. So, come along with me, young man, and you can dictate and I will write." "Can I do that?" he wanted to know. "Of course you can. The Director will say it is all right." And this is what Jimsey wrote to his mother, at least he dictated and I wrote it: