To some of the boys last days at Camp bring sadness. They are the ones who, having neither brother nor sister, begin to realize how lonely it will be at home compared to the bustle out here. They love their parents, are anxious to see them, glad to get back to their orderly bedroom and to the daintily set table. All that kind of thing is good to look forward to, yet how lonesome it will be. Of course, they will meet at school and at each other's homes, but not be together all day and night like this.

They plan to be at each other's houses as often as possible; to never, never forget each other, and be sure to share the same tent next season.

All the season long the untidy boy has opened his trunk, reached around any old way for anything he might need at that particular moment, found it, slammed the lid down without regard to hinges or lock. Day after day he has done this, never once looking at his list so carefully pasted on the inside of the cover.

Anyway, what would be the use of looking at the list; it will be time when he packs up to go home. Day after day you pick up quantities of clothing belonging to boys who have thrown them around, remind them that they will be short when they compare their list and stock on hand. They don't care, and very often are saucy. So the time passes away until a couple of days before Camp breaks up.

Now is the time for vain regrets. Where is that bathing towel that they left lying around loose for weeks? What has become of those swimming trunks? Who has seen the mates of both these sneakers? These and fifty more questions are asked of every one in sight.

Sometimes you find some of your belongings under the tent, some in the bath-house, one or two in the dark room used to keep out the light. Several articles without labels you claim as your own, anything, everything, to help fill that trunk.

Some articles cannot be put in, owing to wear and tear, especially tear. They have gone into the discard long ago. Then, again, some have been borrowed and never returned. The average Camper does not think that "he who goes a-borrowing 'goes a-sorrowing," and cheerfully asks for what he wants, letting the lender do the sorrowing at the end of the season.

The careful boy can pack his trunk, find almost all his clothes and bats, balls, Kodaks, etc., etc., can even close his trunk without the aid of the locksmith. There are more tidy than untidy boys, for which may we be truly thankful.

Along about the time everybody is packing up the boys, who have brought along or bought while in Camp a felt hat, want to have all their friends write their names on it. Some of them are works of art, and one feels quite proud to put his name on, to be in company with so many celebrated signatures.

Often have I wondered what they do with them when they get home. Suppose they hang them up on the walls of their bedrooms as trophies.

After you have written on his hat, very often you write in some book for him. About half the Camp is writing on each other's hats, pants or books. Everywhere you go you will see boys armed with pens, making you think of the old saying about the pen being mightier than the sword.

A general resting up for everybody is advocated after the final contests. That gives one a chance to relax and rest up before going home.

Lessons are stopped; the hour being devoted to siesta instead.

Boys who have all the season neglected their letter-writing tasks begin to get very busy. You will be besieged by requests for paper, envelopes and stamps. They intend letting the family know they are coming.

The boy who during the entire season has sent a blank piece of paper in his envelope, by that means assuring them that no news is good news, now undertakes to write a real letter to apprise them of his return. This so frightens the family that they send a despatch asking if all's well.

The little boys are all very anxious to be met at the depot, also to remind the folks to have a good breakfast ready.

Home-coming always seems sweeter if there is some one to meet us, but we cannot all have loving fathers, devoted mothers, affectionate aunts, sisters or cousins. So the boy who has no one to meet him is not left all alone, but is personally seen to his home or train, as the case may be.

Music and song, games and jollity pass the time every evening until a few nights before the end. Then our celebrated artists give a show.

Whatever we should do without some of our friends I cannot say. What cheerful spirits they bring to bear! How willing they are to do any and every thing, from painting the scenery to painting their own faces!

We can call upon them at any time for help, tell them "You must be a villain, a hero, a lover, a drummer." No matter what we ask for, some of them are ready and willing.

The show cannot fail, the critics who sit in front, and who are more to be dreaded than Alan Dale or Acton Davis, only spur us on to do the best that is in us. We have rehearsed over and over again until those who haven't clean forgot every word are letter perfect.

Sometimes the villain will make a better hero. All right, we give him that role. Again the heroine would look better as the father. That is easily managed. Change clothes and you change sex at the same time.

Nothing daunts us. We would not enjoy the show half so much if all were smooth sailing.

The night arrives at last to give it; you really would not think these were all city boys, who were used to everything from grand opera to vaudeville. So eager are they to help, to advise, to get the best seats, that tremendous excitement prevails all over Camp.

It is rather hard to dress a group of actors and actresses when your principal stock in trade consists of two rolls of crepe paper, some puffs of artificial hair and a few ribbons. Makes one think of "a rag and a bone and a hank of hair."

We have the rags and the hank of hair, and the boys furnish the bones. We manage with the aid of tinfoil, crepe paper and odds and ends of our personal wardrobe to make quite a decent showing.

The show goes off without any hitch. Everybody is good-natured; the critics assure us it was very good, and we clean up the mess, very happy to have been of service once more.

With a vote of thanks to all the willing workers who helped us, the boys once more are glad to obey the bugler when he sounds "Quarters."

They undress quickly, not at all minding going to bed with faces covered with grease, paint or charcoal. Youth does not bother about its complexion. By morning most of it is on the pillow slip, and soap and water will clean up the rest.

The theatrical effects are all carefully packed away, to do duty for another season. The lamps are put out, the curtain rolled up, scenery stored and finis written on the season's offerings.

Lots of work. Lots of worry. Little to do with. Plenty of people to please, and yet! What pleasure in pleasing others! How happy if only they were satisfied! Could I have my choice, in all sincerity, give me the chance to please the children and I could die happy.

The bugler is blowing "Taps." The lights are going out. Once more a sweet good-night to you.

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