CAMP TRIO.

A. DE G. H.

Hurrah! Hurrah! only two days more to vacation, and then!——

If the crowning whistle, and energetic bang with which the strapped books came down, were any indication of what was coming after the “then!” it must be something unusual. And so it was—for Ned, Tom and Con, who were the greatest of chums, as well as the noisiest, merriest boys in Curryville Academy—were to go into camp for the next two weeks, by way of spending part of their vacation. They could hardly wait for school to close, and over the pages of Greenleaf danced, those last two days, unknown quantities of fishing tackle, tents, and the regular regalia of a camping out-fit. They talked of it by day and dreamed of it by night.

At last the great day dawned—dawned upon three of the most grotesque-looking specimens of boyhood, arrayed in the oldest and worst fitting clothes they could find; for, as they said, in the most expressive boy language—“We are in for a rattlin’ good time, and don’t want to be togged out.” They and their effects were taken by wagon over to the Lake Shore, about four miles distant, to establish their camp under the shadow of old Rumble Sides, a lofty crag or boulder.

Boys, I wish you could have seen them that night, in their little woodland home; really, it was quite attractive. They worked like beavers all day—cutting away the brush, driving stakes to tie down the little white tent, digging a trench all around in case of rain, and building a fire-place of stone, with a tall, forked stick on which to hang the kettle. A long board, under the shady trees, served as table.

Too tired to make a fire that night, they ate a cold lunch, and threw themselves on their bed—which was a blanket thrown over pine boughs—untied the tent flaps to let in air, and slept a happy, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, early, they were up, and, after taking a cold plunge in the lake, built a brisk fire, boiled coffee, and roasted potatoes for breakfast. They then bailed out the punt, which was their only sailing craft, and put off for an all-day’s fishing excursion. Several days, with fine weather, passed, and the boys declared they were having a royal time, and that camping was the only life to lead.

They had much difficulty to settle upon a name, but finally decided that “Camp Trio” was most appropriate.

One night they were suddenly awakened by a deep, roaring sound; the wind blew fiercely, it rained hard, but the noise was not of thunder, it seemed almost human; nearer and nearer it came! The three lads sat up in the semi-darkness, and peered at each other with scared faces.

“It’s Old Rumble broke loose and coming down on us,” said Con, in a ghostly whisper. “Hush!” and the trio clutched in a cold shiver, as a crackling of twigs was heard outside, a heavy tread, a long, low moan, a horrible silence.

“It was the Leviathan, I guess,” said Tom, with a ghastly attempt at smiling, as the early morning light stole through the flaps. At length they moved their stiffened limbs and peeped out. Oh, how it did pour! No fire, no fishing, no any thing to-day. Pretty soon a shout from Ned, who had been cautiously prowling around to find the cause of their late fright.

“Oh, boys, it’s too rich! Why, it was Potter’s old cow, down here last night, bawling for her calf that was after our towels, as usual—look here!” and he held up three or four dingy, chewed-looking articles, which had hung on a tree to dry, and might have been towels once. The boys broke into a hearty laugh at their own expense. The day was very long and dull, and the next, stories and jokes fell flat, cold victuals didn’t relish, they began to feel quite blue. The third day Farmer Potter appeared upon the scene.

“What on airth ye doin’ here; trespassin’ on other folks’ grounds? Mebby ye don’t know it’s agin the law!”

The boys felt a trifle uneasy, but answered him politely.

“Hevin’ fun, be ye! Wall, I’ll vow, settin’ in the wet, eatin’ cold rations, haint my idee of fun.” And away he stalked.

The boys looked at each other.

“I say, fellers,” said Con, “a piece of pie and a hunk of fresh bread wouldn’t go bad—eh?”

The two answered with a hungry look.

“But let’s tough it out over Sunday, or they’ll all laugh at us.” And so they did; but it was the longest, dreariest Sabbath they ever spent.

“I’d rather learn ten chapters in Chronicles,” Tom affirmed, “than put in another such a Sunday.”

They had, in the main, a jolly time, but the ending was not as brilliant as they had looked for. They never regretted going, but the next year took a larger party, and went for a shorter time.