His reign began at 4 P.M. one Wednesday (no, Thursday) afternoon and early the next morning Mercia was overrun by the West-Saxons. It is probable that King Wiglaf was sold for old silver to help pay expenses.
XXIII—FACING THE BOYS’ CAMP PROBLEM
The time seemed to have come to send Junior away to a boys’ camp for the summer. He was getting too large to have about the house during the hot weather, and besides, getting him out of town seemed the only way to stop the radio concerts which had been making a continuous Chautauqua of our home-life ever since March.
I therefore got out a magazine and turned to that section of the advertising headed, “Summer Camps and Schools.” There was a staggering array. Judging from the photographs the entire child population of the United States spent last summer in bathing suits or on horseback, and the pictures of them were so generic and familiar-looking that there was a great temptation to spend the evening scrutinizing them closely to see if you could pick out anyone you knew.
“Come on, read some out loud,” said Doris in her practical way.
“‘The Nooga-Wooga Camps,'” I began. “‘The Garden Spot of the Micasset Mountains. Tumbling water, calls of birds, light-hearted laughter, horseback rides along shady trails, lasting friendships—all these are the heritage of happy days at Nooga-Wooga.’ … I don’t think much of the costumes they give the boys to wear at Nooga-Wooga. They look rather sissy to me.”
“That’s because you are looking at the Camps for Girls, dear,” said Doris. “Those are girls in Peter Thompsons and bloomers.”
Hurriedly turning the page, I came to Camps for Boys.
“‘Camp Wicomagisset, for Manly Boys. On famous Lake Pogoniblick in the heart of the far-famed Wappahammock district. Campfire stories, military drill, mountain climbing, swimming, wading, hiking, log-cabins, sailing—’ they say nothing about horseshoeing. Don’t you suppose they teach horseshoeing?”
“That probably comes in the second year for the older boys,” said Doris. “I wouldn’t want Junior to plunge right into horseshoeing his first season. We mustn’t rush him.”
“‘Camp Wad-ne-go-gallup on the shores of Crisco Bay, Maine. Facing that grandest of all oceans, the Atlantic. Located among the best farms where fresh and wholesome food can be had in abundance’—yes but is it had, my dear? That’s the question. Anyway, I don’t like the looks of the boat in the picture. It’s too full of boys.”
