Dear Enemy

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.