Chapter XVI: Leading the Army (1)

On the 13th of April, 1776, Washington was in New York, which now promised to be the center of operations. Here he remained four or five months, making one visit meanwhile to Philadelphia, at the request of Congress, which wished to confer with him. He was busy increasing and strengthening the army and erecting fortifications.

That spring and summer saw a rapid change in men's minds regarding the war with England. Washington no longer thought it possible to obtain what the colonies demanded and still remain subject to England. He was ready for independence, and when Congress issued its declaration, Washington had it read before the army with great satisfaction.

Not long after the declaration of independence, an English fleet arrived in New York Bay, bringing a large body of troops, under the command of Lord Howe, who, with his brother Admiral Howe, had been appointed commissioners to treat with the Americans. In reality, they only brought a promise of pardon to the rebels. It was very clear to Washington that the British Government had not the slightest intention of listening to the grievances of the colonies with a desire to redress them; but that they meant by these proposals to distract the colonies if possible and build up a party there that would oppose the action of Congress. There was a little incident attending the arrival of the commissioners that showed the feeling which prevailed.

One afternoon, word came that a boat was coming to head-quarters, bringing a messenger from Lord Howe with a communication. Washington had noticed that the British, whenever speaking of him or other American officers, had refused to regard them as officers of the army; they were simply private gentlemen who had taken up arms against the King. Now Washington knew that while it was in itself a small matter whether he was addressed by people about him as General Washington or Mr. Washington, it was not at all a small matter how Lord Howe addressed him. That officer had no business with George Washington, but he might have very important business with General Washington. Accordingly, he called together such of the American officers as were at head-quarters to consult them in regard to the subject, and they agreed entirely with him. Colonel Reed was directed to receive the messenger and manage the matter.

Accordingly, he entered a boat and was rowed out toward Staten Island, whence Lord Howe's messenger was coming. The two boats met half-way, and Lieutenant Brown--for that was the name of the messenger--was very polite, and informed Colonel Reed that he bore a letter from General Howe to Mr. Washington. Colonel Reed looked surprised. He himself was an officer in the continental army, and he knew no such person. There-upon Lieutenant Brown showed him the letter, which was addressed, George Washington, Esq. Colonel Reed was polite, but it was quite impossible for him to bear a letter to the commander of the American army addressed in that way. The lieutenant was embarrassed; as a gentleman and an officer he saw he was in the wrong. He tried to make matters better by saying that it was an important letter, but was intended rather for a person who was of great importance in American councils than for one who was commanding an army.

Colonel Reed continued to refuse the letter, and the boats parted. Presently, however, Lieutenant Brown came rowing back and asked by what title Washington chose to be addressed. It was quite an unnecessary question, Reed thought. There was not the slightest doubt as to what General Washington's rank was. The lieutenant knew it and was really very sorry, but he wished Colonel Reed would take the letter. Colonel Reed replied that it was the easiest matter in the world; it only needed that the letter should be correctly addressed. And so they parted.

Five days later, an aide-de-camp of General Howe appeared with a flag and asked that an interview might be granted to Colonel Patterson, the British Adjutant-General. Consent was given, and the next day Washington, with all his officers about him, received Colonel Patterson, who was very polite, and addressed him as "Your Excellency," which did quite well, though it was dodging matters somewhat. He tried to explain away the affair of the letter and said that no impertinence was intended, and he then produced another, addressed to George Washington, Esq., etc., etc.

Evidently, Lord Howe thought he had invented a capital way out of the difficulty. _Et cetera, et cetera!_ Why, that might cover everything,--General-Commanding, Lord High Rebel, or anything else this very punctilious Virginia gentleman might fancy as his title. It would save Washington's pride and relieve Lord Howe's scruples. Washington replied coolly, Yes, the _et cetera_ implied everything, but it also implied anything or nothing. It was meaningless. He was not a private person; this letter was meant for a public character, and as such he could not receive it, unless it acknowledged him properly. So Colonel Patterson was obliged to pocket the letter and try to cover his mortification and to deliver the contents verbally.

Perhaps all this sounds like very small business. In reality it meant a great deal. Were Washington and other officers rebels against the King, or were they the officers of a government which declared itself independent of the King? Lord Howe gave up trying to force Washington into the trap, and wrote to his government that it would be necessary in future to give the American commander his title; and Congress, to whom Washington reported the matter, passed a resolution approving of his course and directing that no letter or message be received on any occasion whatsoever from the enemy, by the Commander-in-Chief or by other commanders of the American army, but such as should be directed to them in the characters they respectively sustained. Little things like this went a great way toward making the people stand erect and look the world in the face.

The Americans needed, indeed, all the aid and comfort they could get, for it was plain that they were at a great disadvantage, with their half-equipped troops stationed some on Long Island and some in New York, between the North and East rivers, surrounded by Tories, who took courage from the presence of a large British force in the bay. Washington used his best endeavors to bring about a strong spirit of patriotism in the camp which should put an end to petty sectional jealousies, and he felt the sacredness of the cause in which they were engaged so deeply that he could not bear to have the army act or think otherwise than as the servants of God. He issued a general order which ran as follows:----

"That the troops may have an opportunity of attending public worship,
as well as to take some rest after the great fatigue they have gone
through, the General, in future, excuses them from fatigue duty on
Sundays, except at the ship-yards, or on special occasions, until
further orders. The General is sorry to be informed that the foolish
and wicked practice of profane cursing and swearing, a vice
heretofore little known in an American army, is growing into fashion;
he hopes the officers will, by example as well as influence, endeavor
to check it, and that both they and the men will reflect, that we can
have little hope of the blessing of Heaven on our arms, if we insult
it by our impiety and folly; added to this, it is a vice so mean and
low, without any temptation, that every man of sense and character
detests and despises it."

The time was now at hand when the army would be put to a severe test, and Washington was to show his generalship in other and more striking ways. The battle of Long Island was fought August 27, 1776, and was a severe blow to the American army. Washington's first business was to withdraw such of the forces as remained on Long Island to the mainland, and unite the two parts of his army. He had nine thousand men and their baggage and arms to bring across a swift strait, while a victorious enemy was so near that their movements could be plainly heard. Now his skill and energy were seen. He sent verbal orders for all the boats of whatever size that lay along the New York shore up the Hudson and on the East River to be brought to the Brooklyn side. He issued orders for the troops to hold themselves in readiness to attack the enemy at night, and he made the troops that defended the outer line of breastworks to have all the air of preparation as if they were about to move at once upon the enemy. All this time it was raining and uncomfortable enough, for the soldiers were unprotected by tents or shelter of any kind, save such rude barriers as they could raise. They kept up a brisk firing at the outposts, and the men who held the advanced position were on the alert, expecting every moment orders to advance.

Then they heard dull sounds in the distance toward the water. Suddenly at about two o'clock in the morning a cannon went off with a tremendous explosion. Nobody knew what it was, and to this day the accident remains a mystery. But the soldiers discovered what was going on. A retreat instead of an advance had been ordered. The order for an advance was intended to conceal the plan. Washington was on the shore superintending the embarkation of the troops. Some had gone over; when the tide turned, the wind and current were against them; there were not enough boats to carry the rest. To add to the confusion one of the officers blundered, and the men who had been kept in front to conceal the movement from the British were ordered down to the Ferry. For a while it looked as if the retreat would be discovered, but it was not, and when morning came the entire army had been moved across to New York, and not a man in the British army knew what had been done. It was a great feat, and Washington, who had not closed his eyes for forty-eight hours, and scarcely left the saddle all that time, again showed himself a masterly general.

He had now to show the same kind of ability the rest of the autumn. It requires one kind of generalship to lead men into battle and another to lead them on a retreat away from the enemy. With a large fleet in the harbor, it was clear that the British could at any time destroy New York and any army that was there. Accordingly, Washington withdrew his army up the island. The British followed. They could transport troops on both sides of the island, by water, and could prevent the Americans from crossing the Hudson River into New Jersey. They began to land troops on the shore of East River not far from where the Thirty-fourth Street Ferry now is. Some breast-works had been thrown up there and were held by soldiers who had been in the battle of Long Island. They seem to have been thoroughly demoralized by that defeat, for they fled as soon as they saw the British advancing, and other troops which had been sent to reënforce them were also seized with panic and fled.

Washington heard the firing in this direction and galloped over to the scene. He met the soldiers running away and called on them to halt. But they were overcome by fear and had lost their self-command. They paid no heed to him, and Washington, usually cool and self-possessed, was so enraged by their cowardly behavior that he flew into a transport of rage, flung down his hat, exclaiming, "Are these the men with whom I am to defend America!" and drawing his pistols and sword in turn, rushed upon the fugitives, trying to drive them back to their duty. He had no fear of danger himself, and he was within a short distance of the British, riding about furiously, when one of his aids, seeing the danger, seized the horse's bridle and called his commander to his senses.

To cover the army, Washington posted his forces across the narrow upper part of the island, from Fort Washington on the Hudson to the Harlem River, and here he kept the British at bay while his men recovered their strength and were ready for further movements. Meanwhile, across the Hudson River from Fort Washington, another fort, named from General Lee, had been built, and Washington had posted General Greene there. It was evident that with the British in force, with an army and navy, it would be impossible to hold New York or the Hudson River, and it was also clear that should Washington's army be defeated there, the British would at once move on Philadelphia, where Congress was sitting. With New York commanding the Hudson River and with Philadelphia in their hands, the British would have control of the most important parts of America.

Washington saw also that there was hard work before him and that it would be impossible to carry on the war with an army which was enlisted for a year only, and he bent his energies toward persuading Congress to enlist men for a longer period. He had to organize this new army and to superintend countless details. His old habits of method and accuracy stood him in good stead then, and he worked incessantly, getting affairs into order, for he knew that the British would soon move. Indeed, it is one of the strange things in history that the British, with the immense advantage which they had, did not at once after the battle of Long Island press forward and break down the Continental army in a quick succession of attacks by land and water. It is quite certain that Washington, in their place, would not have delayed action.

At the end of October, Washington occupied a position at White Plains, in the rocky, hilly country north of New York. Step by step he had given way before General Howe, who had been trying to get the American army where he could surround it and destroy it. Washington, on the other hand, could not afford to run any risks. He wished to delay the British as long as possible, and not fight them till he had his new army well organized. There was a battle at White Plains, and the Americans were forced back; but Washington suddenly changed his position, moved his men quickly to a stronger place, and began to dig intrenchments. He was too weak to fight in the open field, but he could fight with his spade, and he meant to give Howe all the trouble he could. He expected another attack, but in a day or two there were signs of a movement, and he discovered that the enemy was leaving his front.

He was not quite certain what Howe's plans might be, but he was quite sure he would move on Philadelphia. Meanwhile he kept watch over Fort Washington, and gave orders that it should be held only so long as it was prudent, but that in case of extreme danger, it should be given up and its garrison cross the river to Fort Lee. He himself with all but the New England troops, crossed the river higher up, at King's Ferry. The New England and New York troops he posted on both sides of the river to defend the passes in the Highlands, for it was of great importance to have open communication between Philadelphia and New England. A division also was left under General Lee at White Plains, who was to be ready to join Washington when it became necessary.

General Greene, who was in command at Fort Lee, on the New Jersey side of the Hudson, hoped to keep Fort Washington, on the New York side, which was also under his command. He hoped to keep it even after the British had begun to lay siege to it. Washington was obliged to leave this business to Greene's discretion, for he was occupied with moving his army across the river, higher up, and if the fort could have held out, they might have been able to prevent the British from crossing to New Jersey. But Greene counted on a stouter defense than the men in the fort gave, and when Washington at last reached Fort Lee it was only to see from the banks of the river the surrender of Fort Washington with its military stores and two thousand men. It was a terrible loss; and, moreover, the capture of that fort made it impossible to hold Fort Lee, which was at once abandoned.

Now began a wonderful retreat. The English under Lord Cornwallis, with a well-equipped army, and flushed with recent victory, crossed over to New Jersey and began moving forward. They were so prompt that the Americans left their kettles on the fire in Fort Lee as they hastily left. Washington, with a small, ragged, discouraged army fell back from the enemy, sometimes leaving a town at one end as the British entered it at the other; but he broke down bridges, he destroyed provisions, and so hampered and delayed the enemy that they made less than seventy miles over level country in nineteen days.

Meanwhile the British general was issuing proclamations calling upon the people of New Jersey to return to their allegiance, and promising them pardon. Many gave up and asked protection. It seemed as if the war were coming to an end, and that all the struggle had been in vain. The American army, moreover, had been enlisted for a short term only, and before the end of December most of the men would have served their time. General Lee delayed and delayed, and Washington himself was harassed and well-nigh disheartened; but he meant to die hard. One day, when affairs looked very dark, he turned to Colonel Reed, who was by him, and said, drawing his hand significantly across his throat: "Reed, my neck does not feel as though it was made for a halter. We must retire to Augusta County in Virginia, and if over-powered, must pass the Alleghany Mountains."

But Washington was made for something more than a guerilla chieftain. He had put the Delaware River between his army and the British, who were now scattered over New Jersey, going into winter quarters, and intending, when the river was frozen, to cross on the ice and move upon Philadelphia. Suddenly, on Christmas night, Washington recrossed the river with his little army, making a perilous passage through cakes of floating ice that crunched against the boats, surprised a large detachment of Hessians near Trenton, and captured a thousand prisoners. Eight days later he fought the battle of Princeton. Within three weeks he had completely turned the tables. He had driven the enemy from every post it occupied in New Jersey, except Brunswick and Amboy, made Philadelphia safe, and shown the people that the army, which was thought to be on the verge of destruction, could be used in the hands of a great general like a rod with which to punish the enemy.

Men were beginning to see that here was one who was a true leader of men.

On the day after the victory at Trenton, Congress, "having maturely considered the present crisis, and having perfect reliance on the wisdom, vigor and uprightness of General Washington," passed a resolution that "General Washington shall be, and he is hereby, vested with full, ample, and complete powers to raise armies, appoint officers, and exercise control over the parts of the country occupied by the army." Washington had been constantly checked by the necessity of referring all questions to Congress and to his generals. Now he was to have full power, for he had shown himself a man fit to be trusted with power.

(_To be continued._)

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.

BY EDITH M. THOMAS.

"If the weather is fair,"
Said the butterfly, jaunty and free,--
"If the weather is fair,
I'll go dance in the meadow there!"
"And I," said the prudent bee,
"Will be early at work, you will see,--
If the weather is fair!"

FISHES AND THEIR YOUNG.

BY C. F. HOLDER.

A number of years ago, an English naturalist was sitting on the edge of a small stream that flowed sluggishly into the sea on the coast of British Guiana, when his attention was attracted by some curious holes that lined the cliff just above the water. He had fully determined to investigate these crab-caves, as he supposed them to be, when he was startled by seeing a fish, known to the natives as the "hussar," which had been darting up and down and apparently having a rollicking time, run suddenly up into shoal water, and begin to struggle for the shore. At first the naturalist thought that it was pursued by some larger fish and that its action was due to fright; but the fish, retaining its upright position, kept wriggling on slowly up the beach by using its pectoral fins as feet, and in a few moments it disappeared within one of the supposed crab-holes.

Wondering then whether the fish were hunting crabs, or seeking its nest, the watcher soon decided the question as he saw, farther down the shore, several other "hussars" entering their nests. Springing down, he caught a number of the fishes in their homes.

The fishes had excavated the holes in the bank just above the surface of the water, and in them had formed regular nests of grass or leaves, in which the roe or eggs were deposited. The young, when hatched, at once tumbled out into the water and were then protected by the parents.

Such a method of rearing their young is certainly remarkable. In forming their nests, fishes sometimes remind us of the birds, and some of them indeed may be said to equal their feathered cousins in their nest-building faculty. This curious "hussar" fish may be compared with the cliff-swallow that burrows its way into the bluffs, and builds its nest several feet from the entrance, or to the Southern petrel, that excavates its nest in a still more wonderful manner.

The fish known to naturalists by the long name of _Ophiocephalus_, one species of which is found in the Sea of Galilee, is a singular creature. At the approach of the breeding season, it seeks a favorable place to build--generally in shallow water. There perhaps an old sunken root is found, or a projecting ledge of rock. To that spot bits of grass, leaves, growing sea-weed, and refuse of all kinds are brought by the parents, which now proceed to weave this building material into an oval shape. The threads of grass are wound in and out, entangled with one another in various ways, and the interstices filled with mud. During the construction, one or more orifices are left leading into the nest or entirely through it; the grasses are wound around the old root, and finally a compact oval nest is seen suspended and swinging in the tide,--a veritable cradle for the baby fishes.

The eggs are deposited in the interior, and attach themselves to the grass and the sides of the nest. In due time swarms of tiny fishes fill this curious abode, and show a decided inclination to stray away. They are, however, watched and guarded by the parents, which drive them back when they wander too far from home.

This nest-building fish of the Sea of Galilee displays, however, a still more curious method of protection,--for in time of danger, the young are frequently taken into the capacious mouth of the male parent-fish, and thus guarded from harm. This habit is common to quite a number of fishes. An enormous cat-fish called the _lan-lan_, that sometimes attains a length of thirteen feet and a weight of over two hundred pounds, has been seen surrounded by a swarm of young, which upon the slightest alarm rushed into its open mouth for protection; and one of the largest of the South American fresh-water fishes, protects its young in the same way.

The method of a curious South American fish, called the _aspredo_, is no less wonderful. The parent does not carry its eggs in its mouth, but fastens them to its body and fins, by means of stems or stalks; so that each egg has a sort of cradle to itself. As the fish rushes along, these swing to and fro, presenting the appearance of a number of barbels or bells.

A cat-fish at Panama has still another method of carrying its young. This is no less than a pouch, reminding us of a kangaroo. But the perfection of this paternal care--for it is the father that has the pouch--is observed in the sea-horses and pipe-fishes. These have a perfect pouch, into which the infant fishes are taken as soon as hatched, and in which they are carried about until they are able to make their own way in the world. A sea-horse in charge of its young is a very curious sight. The parent fastens its prehensile tail about some pieces of weed, and drives the young fry into the outer world, and soon a host of young sea-colts are seen moving along upright in the water by the curious screw movement of their dorsal or back fins, a body of them appearing like a tiny cloud in the water. The little creatures are so helpless that many of them--sometimes the entire brood--fall a prey to other fishes. They are, however, provided with a means of protection by their resemblance to plants. The pipe-fishes look much like the grass among which they live, and the sea-horses are often decorated with curious barbels and fringes that resemble the weeds under cover of which they hide themselves.

Among the fishes of the ocean that show a decided affection for their young, should be mentioned the curious _Cyclopterus lumpus_--the lump-fish, or "hen and chickens," so common upon the coast of Maine. The name "lump-fish" expresses the general appearance of this fish far better than a long description could, as the creature's body is covered with curious lumps and excrescences that add to the peculiarity of its appearance. The lump-fish is equally common on the English coast, and as the time for rearing a family approaches, it constructs from the sea-weed a rude nest for the protection of the eggs. These the watchful parents guard, their ugly forms, probably, having a decided effect upon all intruders, though, in truth, the lump-fishes are utterly incapable of harming any enemy, and, with their clumsy movements, are unable to catch other fishes in a chase. As soon as the young are hatched, they follow one of the parent-fishes, in a drove or herd, clustering about its head, now darting off, returning with a rush and cuddling under it, after the manner of small chickens seeking refuge under their mother's wings; hence the name of "hen and chickens" bestowed upon them by the English fishermen.

Though the lump-fishes are poor swimmers, and likely, if hurled among the breakers, to be thrown upon the shore, nature has provided them with ample means of protection. The lower fins join in such a way as to form a complete sucker, so that when in danger of being knocked about by the waves, the fish has merely to settle upon a rock, fasten its sucker-like fins to this, and ride out the gale or season of danger like a ship at anchor on a lee shore.

A PUZZLED PAPA.

BY M. L. B. BRANCH.

We're going this year to Littleton,
My wife, our Jack, and Nan and I.
Now Nan is seven, and Jack is ten;
How many tickets shall I buy?

Jack pays half-fare, and Nan pays none,
Though with her dolls she fills a seat;
However stern conductors are,
They give her only glances sweet.

But this year, Nan her kitten takes,
A little, purring, playful thing;
While Jacky has a grave young pug,
Which everywhere he's bound to bring.

Nan has a long-legged Brahma chick,--
She loves that pet with all her heart;
And Jacky owns three pretty doves,
From which he can not bear to part.

"In cage and basket," say the two,
"Well covered up, our pets can go."
They have no doubts; but I have mine,--
And this is what I want to know:

If the cat mews, the puppy barks,
And if the doves at once all coo,
And if the Brahma chicken crows,
As the conductor passes through,

What will he say? How will he look?
What shall I do, in my despair?
Can I, for such a tribe, hand up
Our tickets two, and one half-fare?

We're going this year to Littleton,
My wife, our Jack, and Nan and I,
Dog, cat, three dolls, three doves, a chick--
How many tickets shall I buy?

THE WILD FLOWERS.

BY JESSIE PENNIMAN.

The violet blooms in a shady place
Where the sun comes peeping through;
The hare-bell grows on gray old rocks
And shows its robes of blue.

The May-flower grows on a wooded hill
At the foot of the green old pines,
Where the ferns and moss in clusters show
And the checker-berry twines.

These all grow in the fairest bowers;
There is no room for the daisy flowers.

So the daisy grows by the dusty road,
Sweet and sunny and shy,
Lifting its pretty, modest head
To nod to each passer-by.

"Why do you grow by the roadside, dear?
It is all dust and sand;
Come to the violet's shady nook,
Or join the Mayflower's band."

But the daisy said: "The violet's place
Is better for her, you see;
And the May-flower's place is better for her;
And mine is the _best_ for _me_."

THE BOYS' PARADISE.

[_A Summer Visitor's Account of Camp Chocorua._]

BY ELIZABETH BALCH.

In the Indian language the meaning of "Asquam" is "shining waters," and surely no name could better describe the beautiful lake of sparkling blue, which, nestling among the noble White Mountains, is dotted with numerous islands. Upon one of these islands is Camp Chocorua, so called from the mountain of that name,--the highest point to be seen in the chain of hills inclosing the lake.

Some five years ago it was decided to establish on this island a summer camp for boys, the term to begin in June, and to end about the tenth of September. The first summer the camp opened with some half-dozen boys. Last season, twenty-five manly little fellows tumbled in and out of the lake, like water brownies, perfectly fearless, paddling canoes which had been made by themselves, swimming equally well in clothes or without, and growing active and healthy in the strong, pure mountain air.

Five men, composing "the faculty" in this summer camp, have charge of the boys, and "freedom without license" might almost be the camp motto, so careless, happy, and untrammeled are the lads, yet so perfect is the discipline. One of the first principles of the camp system is, that in every way the faculty shall live the same lives as the boys themselves, sharing their work as well as their pleasures; the spirit existing between the two is therefore far less that of master and pupil than that of good comrades, who are at the same time helpful friends.

Life at Camp Chocorua is a busy one. There are no "book lessons," to be sure; but a good many things are taught that are not always to be found in books. To begin with, bracing mountain air and active out-of-door life give a keen appetite, and it is no small undertaking to provide food for twenty or thirty hungry mouths. Then, too, the tin dishes and plates in which the food is cooked and eaten have to be cleaned and kept in order, and "dish-washing" therefore becomes a necessity. The kitchen-beach is a lively place at these times. In the carpenter's shop, there is work of various kinds to be done; there, too, canoes are built, but no boy is allowed to paddle or sail a canoe until he is an adept at swimming, and can be trusted to take care of himself in the water. This rule is one of the strictest in camp. The _Golden Rod_ is the camp newspaper. It is edited and entirely conducted by the boys. In its columns appears a notice to the effect that the "Good Will Contracting Company washes clothes, irons clothes, cleans and tidies beaches, builds piers, stone walls, steps, etc., carries dirt and publishes newspapers." From this announcement idleness would seem to stand but a poor chance at Camp Chocorua. The boys are divided into four crews, and these crews undertake in turn the different kinds of work: one day, the cooking; the next, dish-washing; the third, police duty, which includes the tidying of beaches, and all work assigned to no other crew. The fourth day is "off duty." This changes the kind of work done daily, and yet gives each boy a chance of learning all the tasks. One of the faculty works with each crew of boys.

The boys sleep in wooden buildings, which are roofed over, but thoroughly ventilated, and the lads seem cozy enough lying curled up in army blankets or on mattresses placed on the floor. They may, if they wish, take a dip in the lake before breakfast, and no one who has not tried it can realize the brightening, bracing, "wakening-up" effect of that morning dip! How it clears the brain and invigorates the body, making one feel equal to all things, strong and ready to do! The regular morning swim does not take place until later,--about eleven o'clock, after the camp work is completed. All through the week the boys may wear shoes and stockings, or they may go barefoot, just as they happen to fancy, and the camp costume consists of a gray flannel shirt and short trousers.

On Sundays, however, they all wear, in addition, scarlet stockings, and scarlet caps, while their gray shirts are laced with scarlet cords. A bonny crew they look, as they push off in the "church boat" at three o'clock, to meet, at Cox's beach, half a mile away, any visitors from the neighboring hotel or farm-houses who may wish to join in the Sunday services. These are conducted in a lovely spot called the "chapel," on the farther side of the island. Rustic seats are ranged around an open space, in the center of which, above a rock forming a natural altar, rises a large cross made of white birch. This altar is dressed with leaves and flowers by the boys, before the service begins; and after the little congregation is assembled, one hears in the distance clear young voices singing some processional hymn, and along a path through the woods, with the sunlight dancing in and out among the branches, the boys come nearer and nearer. Then they take their places at the place appointed for the choir, whilst Mr. Ernest Balch takes his on the other side of the flower-decked rock, and reads the service.

The offertory made at these services goes to the different charities contributed to by the camp, and more than one sick boy or girl in different hospitals have whiled away hours of loneliness and suffering by reading ST. NICHOLAS, which those happy, healthy boys at Camp Chocorua have sent them as a solace in their pain. Sunday afternoon is devoted to writing letters to home-folk, and in the evening, at prayers, Mr. Balch has a quiet talk with the boys in the chapel.

The summer sports take place in August, and consist of fancy swimming and diving, canoe and boat racing, base-ball and tennis. Last year the parents and friends of the boys, to the number of one hundred, accepted the invitation of the camp, and dined there at the conclusion of the sports, which lasted two days. A few weeks later some little plays were acted by the boys. These were very clever productions, and they were excellently performed. The price of admission was modestly placed at fifteen cents, but the visitors gave more than that, since the object of the entertainment was to add to money already collected which was to be devoted to endowing a bed in a children's free hospital, so soon as the required amount could be raised. A huge bonfire was burning brightly on the shore, and dozens of red-capped boys darting about in its ruddy blaze, proved a picturesque contrast to the great white moon as it rose slowly above the mountains and threw a broad band of silvery light across the lake, while from boat to boat cheery "good-nights" rang over the water as the guests who had enjoyed the evening's festivities were rowed to shore.

These charities at Camp Chocorua mean, in the purest sense of the words, "helping others out of one's own store," for the money contributed by the boys is their own, fairly earned by them to do with as they please. Once in camp, an equal weekly allowance is given to every boy, no matter what may be the difference in their parents' means. This allowance is small, and if more money is desired, either for candy, or soda water, or as a contribution to the charities, or to buy materials for a new canoe, or to purchase a canoe already built,--for any extra luxury in fact,--the boy with such desires is obliged to earn the money needed, and work which is paid for at the regular rate of wages for labor will always be furnished him whereby he can earn it. Contracts can be taken for leveling paths, or building walls, or anything else which is needed at the camp, and the money earned by such work is deposited in the Chocorua Bank by the boy earning it. Against this amount on deposit, he draws his check in strict business fashion, which check is duly honored and cashed. If at the end of the term any surplus remains to his credit, he has entire right to dispose of it as he may choose, but no money from home is granted a boy exceeding the original sum stipulated as his weekly allowance. Just as men work and make money, and learn how to use that money in the outer world, so do these boys work, and make money and use it in this miniature world at Camp Chocorua. By the time they are ready to enter a larger sphere in life, they know and appreciate the worth of money honestly earned, and understand the true art of spending it.

Lest the boys should in truth become very water-sprites, they go, toward the end of the term, for a week's tramp over the hills. A large canvas-topped wagon, drawn by oxen, carries blankets and provisions, and any boys who grow tired and foot-sore can have a lift when they feel like it. They camp out at night and have many amusing adventures by day; and at the different farmhouses to which they come in their wanderings, fresh milk is willingly furnished to the jolly, brown-faced, red-capped lads, who make the hills ring cheerily with their songs and laughter. Each year the youngest boy of the whole party is called the camp "infant," and is accorded several extra privileges, not the least of which is the right of tasting the ice-cream whenever it is made, without having been obliged to assist in making it.

Were I a boy, the life at Camp Chocorua would be my idea of a thoroughly good time, combining as it does plenty of fun, and a free, open-air life, with the acquisition of much useful knowledge for one's self, and the habit of exercising a thoughtful helpfulness for others.

A BOYS' CAMP.

BY ONE OF THE CAMPERS.

"Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat;
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,--
Come hither, come hither, come hither,
Here shall he see
No enemy."--

These lines from Shakspere's "As You Like It" came to me again and again as Papa finished the reading of a circular which a friend had handed him.

"Camp Harvard," so the circular declared, "is located on the shore of one of New Hampshire's most picturesque lakes, about equidistant from Winchendon, Mass., and Rindge, N. H. The design of the camp is to furnish boys with a rational and healthy outdoor life during the summer months, where, under competent care and supervision, they can learn to swim, row, fish, do some tramping and mountain-climbing, and engage in other manly sports; form and cultivate good habits, and build up their bodily strength. The cabins are of wood, roofed, floored, commodious, and weatherproof. Each member has a cot. The best of wholesome food is provided."

"I know one of the two young men who established Camp Harvard," said Papa, as he concluded the reading of the circular. "They are students at the Cambridge Theological Seminary. I have made some inquiries, and I shall be glad to have you spend the summer in the woods with them. I presume the other boys will be much younger than yourself, but you would, doubtless, find many of them companionable; and life in the open air, for a couple of months, would, I think, be pleasant and beneficial to you."

It was a long time before I fell asleep that night. I had always been anxious to camp out, and here was a glorious opportunity.

Then followed busy days. The circular said: "Boys are recommended to bring, in addition to the clothes they travel in, two gray flannel shirts, two pairs old trousers, knickerbockers (one pair corduroy), long rubber coat, swimming trunks, two pairs heavy blankets (dark), strong shoes (one or two pairs with rubber soles), old overcoat, ordinary underclothing, stout red belt, high stockings (two pairs dark red), slippers, night-shirts or _pajamas_, brush and comb, sponge, towels, soap-case, two tooth-brushes, tennis racquet, skull-cap, belt-knife, and an old jacket."

Mamma saw that I was supplied with all these things, and on the morning of July 1, I took my place on a railroad train, bound for Rindge. As we approached Rindge, I spied a large mountain-wagon with four horses drawn up alongside the shanty which served as a depot. I was confident that this was for the campers, for it already contained five boys. Ten boys left the train. The divinity student, who was one of the "masters" of the camp, and whom I had already met in the city, welcomed me, and we all took seats in the wagon. Up hill and down we traveled, and the horses seemed to enjoy it as much as we did. Mountain drivers have a way of slowing up their horses going downhill, and sending them up on a gallop. Now the road wound along a narrow ledge beside Monomonock and thence onward through a dense forest, where tall, straight sugar maples raised their leafy crowns high in air; smooth beeches, with round, gray trunks, stood like massive pillars; and great yellow birches, with shaggy, curling bark and gnarled limbs, rose like monarchs above the lesser trees. Finally, a sudden turn in the road brought us face to face with the words, "CAMP HARVARD," in large red letters on a sign suspended from a noble oak. The gate-bars were down and a ride of less than half a mile farther brought us to a pretty grove where clustered the cabins that composed the camp.

Who has not felt the pleasures of life in the forest? It is quite impossible to put them into words, or to make one who has never experienced them understand what they are.

There is a sense of freedom and freshness every hour. A round of simple, natural toils and amusements fills up each day. The ear soon becomes attuned to the surroundings, and it begins to hear a gentle sound, like the dropping of ceaseless rain. It is the pattering of the minute particles falling from spruce and pine and hemlock, to mingle with decaying roots and underbrush and form the rich, dark forest-mold on which every step falls so softly. Then there is a rustling of leaves, a pattering of quick, light feet, and a red squirrel runs along a fallen trunk, peers at one curiously, and, half in fear, half in audacity, gives its sharp, shrill bark. A little bird which one can not see pierces the air with a slender, long-drawn note. A woodpecker beats his sounding tattoo on a hollow tree, and, growing bolder, comes nearer and nearer, until perhaps he ventures to try the very trunk against which you are leaning.

Everything about the camp was examined by us with great interest. First the cookhouse, where a man was preparing dinner. This cabin contained a range, two long tables, a refrigerator, and a great quantity of cooking utensils. All the dishes, cups, saucers, and platters were of tin and shone like mirrors. Adjoining, was the storehouse, which was the base of table supplies. The sleeping cabin was about fifty feet in length and oblong, with a slanting roof. The upper half of sides and rear were "flaps," swinging on hinges. These were open during the day, but usually closed at night. Above the flaps was an open space of fourteen inches all around, and over this the eaves projected. Cots were ranged about the sides of the cabin, and choice of these was decided by lot. At one end was an open veranda, where the dining-tables stood. Large reflecting lanterns were placed at intervals, and several small lights hung in a row near the entrance.

There were an ample medicine chest and other useful camp features, and over one end of the cabin was a loft for trunks. Fifty feet from the cabin was the beach. The pretty lake showed scarcely a ripple upon its fair surface. It was three miles long and at some points a mile wide, with many coves and inlets. Part of it seemed like a succession of small lakes. Along the shore, were boats in great variety, from the flat-bottomed fishing-boats to the racing gig with its outriggers and delicate lines. The silent hills beyond lifted themselves toward heaven in the glory of enduring strength, while old Monadnock towered aloft as commander over all.

The tooting of a horn summoned us back to headquarters. Trunks were put in place, blankets and the camp toggery brought forth; we exchanged our city clothes for the latter, and life at Camp Harvard began. Consulting the bulletin, I found myself assigned to duty as "table-boy," with one of the fellows who came up on the train as my associate. It was new work for me, but one of the masters took hold with us. The table was soon set and a steaming hot dinner was brought from the cookhouse. Grace was said by one of the masters, the company all standing with bare heads; then caps were resumed and hungry appetites began to be appeased. Great milk-cans, each holding ten quarts, were brought up from the icehouse. The supply of bread, vegetables, or meat needed constant replenishing. When dinner was over and the table had been cleared and the floor swept, my duties ceased until supper-time. The camp work was done by detachments of boys whose assignments varied with each day. A bulletin containing the assignments for the following day was posted each evening, so that every boy knew in advance what was required of him. All campers, masters included, shared the daily labors. The plan succeeded admirably. Each boy grew to be particular in the discharge of his duties, for neglect was seen to be a boomerang. For instance, if the boy whose special care happened to be drinking-water, failed to keep up a fresh supply, the other fellows who had to suffer for his shortcomings made life a burden to him; and so the whole camp acted as a sort of police force to keep each member up to the mark. This arrangement transferred much responsibility from the masters to the boys themselves, and a sense of responsibility is a good thing for anybody.

After supper, a roaring camp-fire was built, and by this time we all were very well acquainted, and gradually came out of our shells. The masters were plied with questions, and yarns were spun. Perhaps the pleasantest feature of camp life was the evening gathering around the blazing logs, and the nine o'clock horn always seemed to toot ahead of time. The brother of one of the masters had spent a year among the mines and ranches of Colorado, and his graphic descriptions and thrilling tales were admirably adapted to our willing ears. Songs we always had. They may not have ranked high as literary productions; any lack in this respect, however, was more than made up by their spirited rendering. Here is one, to the tune of "It's a way we have at old Harvard":

"It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,
It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,
It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,
To pass the time away.
If I'd a son or a ward, sir,
A 'dig,' a prig, or a bard, sir,--
I'd send him to Camp Harvard, sir,
To pass the time away.

"For we'd like to have you know, sir,
That shirking is no go, sir;
First work, then play, and so, sir,
We pass the time away.

"Now if you really wish, sir,
An epicurean dish, sir,
Just wait till we bake this fish, sir,
To pass the time away."

--and so on through several stanzas.

By ten o'clock every night, we wrapped ourselves up in our blankets, lights went out, and silence reigned. I didn't chafe much under this rule, for the true camper is always asleep as soon as he lies down. The next thing I heard was a buzzing sound--the alarm clock had rung, it was half-past six, and the sunlight was streaming in upon the campers. Several of us jumped into the lake for a bath; later in the season this morning plunge became general, and every fellow had to report with soap and tooth-brush. After breakfast, there came the usual camp work,--lanterns to be filled, the sleeping cabin to be swept out, various "police" duties to be attended to, and fuel to be provided; at eleven, there was instruction in swimming. And so the days went by. The work was so systematized as not to fall heavily upon any one person, unless he shirked; and there was ample time for base-ball, cricket, tennis, fishing, boating, and other amusements. When the days were very warm, hammocks were very popular. The Fourth of July was celebrated with appropriate exercises. The Stars and Stripes floated gayly from our staff, and the cabins were decked with bunting and small flags. At night, the farmers and woodsmen, with their sisters, cousins, aunts, and sweethearts, began to swarm down upon us and lined the lake shore. Our fireworks were set off from a scow anchored one hundred yards from land, and the effect was fine.

Sunday morning breakfasts were after the most approved New England fashion,--baked beans, brown bread, fishballs, and chocolate. Everybody was expected to write a letter home during the forenoon. After dinner came the choir rehearsal, followed by four o'clock service in a picturesque little opening in the woods which nature seemed to have designed for a chapel. There rough benches had been made under the shadowy trees, and the sylvan chancel had been carpeted with moss. At the back of the chancel, stood a great rude cross, outlined boldly against the somber background of dense forest; and directly before us was a rustic pulpit. Our Sunday service in this woodland sanctuary was attended by large numbers of strangers, many driving a distance of twelve or fifteen miles. The master who acted as minister wore a white surplice and read the service of the Episcopal Church. The chants and a familiar hymn were sung to a violin accompaniment. Then came a short address.

A collection was always taken up in behalf of the Charity Fund, which, at the end of the season, the boys voted to divide between the Sheltering Arms Nursery of Brooklyn, and the Boys' Home in Boston.

The mail arrived at noon and sunset each day, being brought by "the captain," an aged member of an historic New Hampshire family. The captain was often accompanied by his good wife. She was a motherly creature, and both were prime favorites at camp. The captain had served his country in the war, and had many a yarn to spin.

The camp dog was a splendid Newfoundland named Duke, and he was the champion swimmer. Two of the campers had cameras and took photographs, which they sold at good profit.