Tell Jervis I am sorry he is not with us to drive a nail for the camp.
Here comes the Hon. Cy up the path. Heaven save us!
Ever your unfortunate,
S. McB.
THE JOHN GRIER HOME,
May 8.
Dear Judy:
Our camp is finished, our energetic brother has gone, and our
twenty-four boys have passed two healthful nights in the open. The three
bark-covered shacks add a pleasant rustic touch to the grounds. They are
like those we used to have in the Adirondacks, closed on three sides
and open in the front, and one larger than the rest to allow a private
pavilion for Mr. Percy Witherspoon. An adjacent hut, less exposed to the
weather, affords extremely adequate bathing facilities, consisting of a
faucet in the wall and three watering-cans. Each camp has a bath master
who stands on a stool and sprinkles each little shiverer as he trots
under. Since our trustees WON'T give us enough bathtubs, we have to use
our wits.
The three camps have organized into three tribes of Indians, each with
a chief of its own to answer for its conduct, Mr. Witherspoon high chief
of all, and Dr. MacRae the medicine man. They dedicated their lodges
Tuesday evening with appropriate tribal ceremonies. And though they
politely invited me to attend, I decided that it was a purely masculine
affair, so I declined to go, but sent refreshments, a very popular move.
Betsy and I walked as far as the baseball field in the course of the
evening, and caught a glimpse of the orgies. The braves were squatting
in a circle about a big fire, each decorated with a blanket from his bed
and a rakish band of feathers. (Our chickens seem very scant as to tail,
but I have asked no unpleasant questions.) The doctor, with a Navajo
blanket about his shoulders, was executing a war dance, while Jimmie
and Mr. Witherspoon beat on war drums--two of our copper kettles, now
permanently dented. Fancy Sandy! It's the first youthful glimmer I have
ever caught in the man.
After ten o'clock, when the braves were safely stowed for the night,
the three men came in and limply dropped into comfortable chairs in my
library, with the air of having made martyrs of themselves in the great
cause of charity. But they did not deceive me. They originated all that
tomfoolery for their own individual delectation.
So far Mr. Percy Witherspoon appears fairly happy. He is presiding at
one end of the officers' table under the special protection of Betsy,
and I am told that he instills considerable life into that sedate
assemblage. I have endeavored to run up their menu a trifle, and
he accepts what is put before him with a perfectly good appetite,
irrespective of the absence of such accustomed trifles as oysters and
quail and soft-shell crabs.