A few days before we leave for Camp all the boys, new and old, are invited to meet at the home of the Director to become acquainted with one another. It is called a rally, and truly the boys do rally around the Director, whose greatest fault is that he loves mankind too much, for his idea of Heaven is that it is filled with boys alone. One look in his face will convince the most skeptical, and association for even a brief season with him makes a boy feel truer and better.

The principal part of the rally consists of partaking bountifully of ice cream, cake and lemonade, while exchanging yarns with old friends, making new acquaintances, thinking up new jokes, and enjoying the shining hours. The faculty hobnob with each other, and, taking it altogether, it is a delightful afternoon, one to be remembered as a red letter day.

Even the old Camp nurse calls around, to be greeted by both her friends and enemies; to renew her friendship for all, mentally picking out new favorites, while keeping a warm spot in her heart for old boys. There is something in the air that starts her off right away using camp slanguage, and behaving like one of the boys. She just cannot help getting into the spirit of the thing. All the way over to the rally she had told herself that she must act in a dignified way becoming to a woman of 80 in the shade, then the minute she catches sight of the crowd she throws dignity to the winds, saying she'll none of it, is ready for a tussle with or without gloves, snaps her fingers at old Father Time. Let the sands run down if they must, but until the last grain has run, she hopes to be with her boys, to tease, to love, to try and care for them. If they need a mother's care, all right; she is there. Are they in want of a chum? Well, in a pinch she will do. As long as she can make them happy in her poor little way, what cares she if she does make a goose of herself?

You see that, after all, the keynote of life is LOVE. With it, the very poorest home is happy; without it, a palace is dreary. So poor old Nursie starts out by loving the Director, and right on down the line, finding good qualities in the worst and tamest boy there. She is devoutly thankful for the chance to spend some weeks with those who love her, despite her years and looks.

But we must not get mushy. So let's travel along and get to the starting point, or how shall we ever get there?

The day before we leave New York the expressman calls for our trunks, bags, etc., which ends our troubles as far as they are concerned. We never see anything of them until we get to Camp, yet they have been on their way just the same as we. There they stand on the Campus, waiting to be put into the tents. They are filled with good things to decorate and make these little homes look like college rooms.

The long-looked-for day is here at last. A farewell look around to see that we have forgotten nothing, we make a solemn promise to write regularly, to keep our teeth clean, not to eat much trash, to keep out of danger, not to get wet, to mind the Director and faculty; in fact, to be good, good, good.

Compared to the excitement at the depot, the Tower of Babel was a peaceful village. Of course, it is a fool comparison to compare the anxious parents' wanderings to that of a lot of hens who have just been decapitated, yet they will feel so terribly anxious at the parting moment. Every mother wants her boy looked after, never mind the rest. The boy himself doesn't want to be fussed over, and most awfully hates to be petted in public.

Yes, sir! I have known boys who would kick at being petted in public, and yet were perfectly willing to have some one lie down with them at night, telling them fairy stories until they were sleepy. They never entirely get over that, either, only the tables are reversed in later years, they being the ones to tell the fairy stories.

The gates are opened; one wild rush for the cars; mothers kissing the wrong boys in their excitement; everybody trying to get away from somebody else, the inevitable small boy with fiendish cunning letting go of your hand, shouts, laughter, tears and prayers, follow us as we step aboard the special train reserved for our Camp, "Good-bye, dear—Be a good boy—Write soon—Clean your teeth—Don't poke your head out of the window—Tell the Nurse about your medicine—Tell the faculty about your clothes—Ask the doctor to keep an eye on you—Let the Director 'phone me as soon as you get there"—these, and a thousand and one more questions and orders, follow us as we slowly glide out of the train shed.

We soothe the nervous parents, honestly promising them to look after their darlings, send them home with sometimes a heavy heart at the thought of parting from their children, yet thankful that they can give them advantages that they themselves could not always have in their youth. There are, of course, exceptions; many a father realizes that he has not the knack of training his boys and being wise, decides to let others do it for him. For what on earth is sadder than parent and child who do not understand each other, constantly pulling at the wrong end of the rope, growing farther and farther apart as the years go by.

Before the train is in the tunnel the little chaps are peeling off their collars, ties and all the clothes they dare, having been almost roasted, that hot June evening, before starting.

The porter is ordered to make up berths at once. You really would think they wanted to go to bed. It looks that way for a minute, but is only a huge bluff. While ample room has been allowed for all, the rascals prefer getting into each other's berths. Only the very little boys go to sleep before 10 or 11 p. m. Such a glorious time as they have! But even the wildest boy must let up some time until his storage batteries are recharged. At last quiet prevails, and for the next few hours nothing is heard but the click of the rails, the warning whistle, the brakeman passing through the cars with shining lantern, one or another of the faculty seeing that all's well, our Director himself looking out for the comfort of the little ones.

Biddy herself, on the job, like the old woman of nursery rhyme who had so many children she didn't know what to do, is put down at one end of the car with all the littlest ones. These she can watch (when she's awake), and gather under her wings in case of storm. There is no storm, unless one of protest at the general racket made.