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"Here all is gained we spend our lives demanding,
Here all is found that feverish we pursue."
(CHATAFFIN)
Now began our years as one of the "family groups" at Camp. The Chalet was enlarged as members were added
to the family. (Other buildings also were improved, but I must tell the story as it came to me. Other ladies will
please write their stories and tell me about their children. We were perennials while other families came and went).
Guests. In 1911 we lived in the Speer Cabin and were
visited by Mr. Speer and Elliott; later in the summer by my two sisters Clara and Elizabeth Waite, (Elizabeth is
Mrs. Courtlandt W. Babcock of Boston). Clara came upon the c&che of shoes in Dr. Speer's window-box (and "was
filled with wonder and amaze", as Rudie would put it). Elizabeth was "a natural" for walking, and
her "Nathan's Pond Skirt" became a family saying. In those days we walked in long and heavy skirts---but
we did Nathan's Pond one day and Aziscoos the next. (Young readers who by a turn of Time may think their elders
were always elderly or feeble will kindly note that some of us had steady jobs, "tending babies" morning
and evening, with these excursions only sandwiched in, and that others of us were nearing and passing fifty while
loping up Aziscoos.) Elizabeth composed the lyric,
"Dr. Strong was called away to Tyrone town to preach. The natives there they all did say that he was just
a peach", etc.-- if anyone can be said to compose lines so perfectly based on a popular jingle of the day.
Howard Crosby also visited us, (then not long out of the Naval Academy at Annapolis and its summer cruise to New
London, now I believe a Lieutenant Commander, U. S. Navy). The black silk scarf he gave me in 1911 I wore for broken
arm in 1940. (Note occasional persistance of inanimate objects.)
Christenings. Two christenings occurred in the Assembly Hall,
both performed by Dr. Stone. At Catherine's in 1910 he was assisted by Mrs. Taylor, who spoke, and by a quartette:
Mrs. Frost, Hilda Frost, Dr. Minor Morgan, Jr., joining Dr. Stone; Mrs. Frost at the piano; decorations by Mrs.
Stone and Edith Frick (Mrs. George W. Hummel). At Horace Junior's in 1914 he was assisted by Dr. Speer (as at our
wedding) and by Dr. Van Meter of Baltimore, who had christened his less famous mother some years before ;--Horace
Junior, a vigorous not to say forceful child, at nine-months old; conversed cheerfully during Dr. Van Meter's prayer,
"joining in the prayer", Mr. Speer said; it may be so; we never heard the prayer. The singing for the
infant Hig was led by what seems to have been a sextette: Dr. and Mrs. Stone and Elizabeth, Louise Kimball, Mr.
Luce of China and his son Henry Luce, now of "Time" magazine. (John was also christened by Dr. Stone,
but with less ceremony, at 1326 DeKalb Street, in 1918, during a major World War).
Children. These three young persons (or "choice
little spirits") were all carried back and forth across the Chalet trail while it still retained its rough
muddy slippery aspect. The fine stones had not yet been laid,--by Mr. Dreyer, of the C. I. M., (I trust my grandchildren's
mothers,--if any, --will appreciate this noble work of that good man). My husband invented a system of carrying
Catherine in a pack-basket, like an American Indian child. On any evening when rain had turned the trail into a
sliding river-bed, when enormous Hig was a baby,--my life was practically saved by Mr. Harry Luce of China, who
rushed out from
the Glen (house) and gallantly seized the squirming Hig and conveyed him down the last long slide, where the woods
open on the Glen, (glen).
All children's bath water was heated on the nursery stoves. At the Chalet it was carried a total of a great many
thousand miles around what seemed to be the longest porch in the world in "pails" or "buckets",
(according as you are speaking New England or South). The admirable porcelain tubs with running water were installed
at a later time when the infants had long ceased to accumulate dirt and splinters from creeping on the Chalet porch,
and were big enough to swim across the Lake.
Perhaps I should refrain from "first steps," "first words", etc., but any mother who ever arrived
at Camp with young children in a torrential downpour of cold nipping rain,-- (and who of us did not?),--will appreciate
the recollection of wet, forlorn, water-logged Hig, seven months old, carried across the trail by a kind man, Leslie
Fox, through floods that must have seemed to a sheltered baby like the depths of the Atlantic Ocean,--who looking
out on that strange new world, spied the familiar and beloved face of his big sister, ("Kit" or "Pussy",
who had plodded by their side in diminutive rubber boots) ,--and for the first time 'articulate, shouted triumphantly,
"Puzzy!" (And has not been altogether silent since. )
Nurses. We had some exceptional helpers at Camp in charge
of these young savages (or "Choice little spirits"): Bertha Belcher, (who went with us to England in
1912 and later married Dr. Ammon Kershner of Norristown); Grace Hutchison, (now Mrs. John Williamson); Dorothy
Abegg, (a cousin of the Spaeths' at Princeton, who came from the German Youth Movement and went back to it); fine,
stalwart Gertrude, Lucy and Mildred John; and for six years our dear friend Evelyn Abernethy, who came to us from
Belfast and the Barbours and the Speers, called "'Minam" and eventually,-- (she "knew it wouId come
to that, if she stayed in this dreadful country long enough"), called "Mammy"! All of us wish we
could see Mammy every day.
Games. The young families outgrew the various "pens"
and the Speer sand-box (with its "cat-hole" cut for Catherine); outgrew the baby carriage, (bought in
London to divert Catherine at the age of two from pushing the large Grenfell baby in his carriage over the side
of the Mauretania; the British go-cart is still in the Assembly Hall). They attained to the height of Ping Pong.
This venerable sport was maintained at Camp during the entire generation when played almost nowhere else, so that
our children (perennial residents) unavoidably attained a slight proficiency. My husband, leader of Aziscoos and
Nathan's Pond, was the original champion; Hig played when so small that he had to reach the racquet up to the table
and guess where the ball would come over the edge; to our embarrassment at one period some two or three of the
Colemans would often be left playing in a "Round Robin" whence all but them had fled. Since the decline
and fall of the American pioneer spirit Ping Pong has been largely superseded by Ching Chong. (This is known as
sophistication.) Manhattan Pool, a game beyond my arithmetical comprehension, was adopted and made their own by
Drs. Fred and Walter Erdman. (It is my conviction that two great mathematicians were lost to the world when Fred
and Walter decided for medical and ecclesiastical vocations.) Ariagrams are played at the Beehive by experts.
Tennis. Tennis came in with Dr. and Mrs. Adam and Mr.
Fred Ristine. It was carried on by the Wilders, Miss Klemm, Mr. Schlichter, Bob Glover, and innumerable others.
Equipment from Sears, Roebuck. Roller local and not too light. Courts laid out by Leslie Fox. Sir James Ewing sat
on a chair all day and refereed the tournaments. Drs. Speer and Brister played immediately after supper, in defiance
of the laws they could have taught the youngest
child--and neither would admit to feeling at all peculiar.
"Jenkins Up" and "Poor Pussy" and
a long double line whose members tried to make the opposition laugh were games that acquired great popularity in
the Assembly Hall, also popcorn, for real parties. When Edith Frick came in with the popcorn bowl we knew, "This
is a party". Charades and "Adverbs" and such intellectual equivalents as "Tea Kettle"
scarcely came into favor until "the summer we had so many college boys and girls"; (Nancy McCreary's
later visit, 1923). The "geography game" was good entertainment for many years. "Twenty Questions"
on week nights were secular enough, but on Sunday noon after Church beside the Lake they acquired the special flavor
of religious attainment. (It was heard said of Franklin Fry: "It is hardly fair. He's been reading 'Luke'
all the week !" )
Mock Trials. Mock trials were of course a high pinnacle
of entertainment. For one of them Mrs. Swartz made the most superb wig I have ever seen for Judge Swartz in his
official capacity. It was made of shavings which curled magnificently. We could hardly bear to have him take it
off. I think this was the trial at which the prisoner jumped into the lake at tea while the prosecuting attorney
went on with his story.
Early Entertainers. Mr. Walter Erdman unaided was as
good as a whole agency of professional stars for an evening at a time. No one could ever hear his Cheesemonger's
Daughter" too often, or the conversation of "Belle" with Chris. Columbus.
Owen Crimmins. Owen Crimmins was not a legendary name
in a book in those days "like Paul Bunyan"! Oh, no, he was Owen Crimmins. He came out from "the
farm" on the Swift Diamond or from his winter house at Wentworth's Location, to see his friends at Camp, and
had his picture taken, like all the rest of us, and told the "Stories" himself in the Assembly Hall,
while they were still in the making; 'and said to Mrs. McCreary (in 1911), "Tell your husband his shoes are
being worn by the greatest liar in the State of New Hampshire.
Beavering. Have I mentioned "beavering"? A
romantic occupation. One went canoeing in the evening on the lake, (or two did), to watch for the beavers to come
out of their house. They "came out better after the moon was up", and you had to be very quiet. It was
Mr. Bogardus at the Big Pond who taught Miss Thompson, (chaperoned by Marnie and me), to look for them in the direction
of the hands of a clock; "Two o'clock", he would whisper,--"Nine o'clock", --we gazed to right
or left,--and a beaver swam into view and flopped his tail with great noise. Sometimes one had to wait for hours
(or two did).
Basic Customs. There not only was no dancing, no Sunday fishing or swimming; we simply did not miss them. Cards were played very little,--there was so much else to do; chiefly enjoying one another, talking, walking, and reading. The keen delight in simple spontaneous entertainment had the same kind of zest that mountain air has.
Meetings. My husband made an earnest effort to prevent people
from holding meetings,--although there was a general consciousness that much prayer was being made throughout the
Camp, and that prayer was a natural medium, a background. But "meetings" were being held all winter long
by many of these people, and this was their vacation. On one occasion he failed to prevent Dr. Mahy from holding
a Wednesday night prayer meeting. We had a lovely service, looking up all the names of the missionaries who had
been at Camp, and praying for them especially. Then Dr. Speer said, "Now we will go about our usual occupations---they
are all part of the same thing". (This is what I mean by little things of every day becoming Sacraments ;--granted
the people who were there--and-but this is a narrative, not a book on Theology.)
No one could dissuade Mr. David Baron from reading the Psalms, (and in fact no one wanted to). He had added the
devotion of his Christian life,--so often he had been nearly martyred,--to his early training for a Rabbi in Russia,--and
we were all drawn by his loving spirit. A student recently graduated from one of the Theological Seminaries (both
student and Seminary to be nameless) said, "If we only had Bible teaching like that at -------------!
We would all listen".
Sunday Services. No one could fittingly describe the
Sunday services, with the accumulated sentiment and reality they gathered through the years, morning and evening,
in the Assembly Hall. In recent years (since there are smaller groups and fewer speakers) the evening service has
usually been a Hymn-singing, often with a talk by Mrs. Taylor added. The green hymn-books are well remembered.
Of course we had Sunday School, when there were children. Mr. Walter Erdman told me at the beginning, about 1911,
that I ought to teach it, as I had always taught, at home, in Baltimore. I think that he and I held it on alternate
Sundays that summer, and afterwards I taught it every Sunday for about fifteen years while the children were growing
up--(if you can call it teaching). It is amazing to' think where the pupils, who of course contributed more than
the teacher, are scattered today.
Reading Aloud. I have mentioned the custom of reading
aloud, which of course grows dearer and deeper and more habitual and memorable, the oftener it is done. "Drake's
Drum", and "Tales of the Mermaid Tavern", "Wayside Lamps" and the "Ode on the Death
of the Duke of Wellington" at the Speer Cabin took on more than the human interest of the voices in which
we heard them, in those innocent days "before the War"; they somehow multiplied, before World Wars had
a chance to multiply. They are put safely away now "where moth and rust cannot corrupt, and thieves cannot
break through and steal". When the first World War approached, there was reading in the Assembly Hall by Walter
Erdman from David Grayson for Mrs. Snyder's "Navy League" knitters.
Dr. Speer read the "Judge Priest Stories" to us all, in the same place, long before Irving Cobb became
well known. The Barons came to the readings, and we thought they might be shocked--but they enjoyed it most of
all. Even the less intellectual Chalet read aloud, after the children grew to that form of expression. Dugald Dalgetty's
part in "The Legend of Montrose" was read by Victor Roberts, Jr., (recently assistant District Attorney
of Montgomery County). The story of Jonathan Zane and Lew Wetzel was read by Hig. Nancy and Catherine read "Kim."
(You can ask Catherine now, at any hour of the day or night, where to find anything in Kipling,--she never misses,--just
as in Sunday School. Dr. Strong wrote John, when he was born, to be sure to acquire "his sister's masterly
application"; she was seven. Nancy is just the same. But now they are applying it to other services than scholarship.)
Reading. There was leisure at Camp for reading per se.
Even the mothers who stayed at home with the babies in the various cabins on Sunday evening felt they were part
of the circle gathered together in the Assembly Hall,and had a right to time for reading Bishop Paget,--or what
you will.
Writing Books. I haven't mentioned the custom of writing
books. Some of our members were always writing them ! It looked so natural when Mrs. Howard Taylor did it: "Pastor
Hsi", "Hudson Taylor in Early Years", 'Hudson Taylor and the China Inland Mission", "With
'Pu and His Brigands", "Borden of Yale". (If she had as much difficulty about leaving things out,
in a really great and useful book, as I am having with this helter-skelter rambling tale of symbols,--I send her
my belated sympathy here and now.) Mr. Speer we often suspected of writing books while the rest of us were talking.
(Else how-come so many?).
Walking. Of walking I can never adequately tell, if I
write "till all the seas gang dry, my love, till all the seas gang dry". (That seems a long time, doesn't
it? But it's true, and only Robert Burns can say it. Like Robert Burns for Scotland, walking is "the immortal
memory" for Camp Diamond.) We walked to Colebrook by every road there was: the Mohawk Road, viewing the "Fish
Hatchery"; the Hill Road, where we ate in sight of the Groveton Peaks; the Stewartstown Hollow Road, where
we climbed the water fall; "the Tunnell", which we said so often "had been invented by Grandfather
Hurlburt" that we came to believe it. When we wanted to rest, we ran for a while; we did not mind "the
derisive sheep" baaing at us from the hill pastures. We walked to the "North-North-East Clearing",
(Knapp's Hill was only a starting place). We climbed Aziscoos, and we tried to climb Monadnock. We walked to the
Big Pond on Sundays after Church-- (some of us still manage to get to Kendrigan's Landing). We walked to the Maple
Sugar Grove, (Hig walked this 5 miles regularly at less than three years old); we walked to Canada (where Jane
and the Pastor contended for irreconcilable kinds of tea). The walk "around the block" came into its
own again with the coming of the Corums. (It was variously estimated at anything from nine to fourteen miles, eleven
and a half being a conservative position to take.) We walked to the Balsams Club House to tea, and of course back
again. Katharine Zieber, one of the most valiant, said she "wouldn't mind walking if it weren't for that awful
schoolhouse". Any walker will recognize this well-chosen allusion to the last steep mile up Klebe's Hill to
the Camp from the (no longer existent) school-house at the crossing of the Canada Road. Marnie Speer and I reversed
the. processes of nature and walked up hill from Colebrook to the Camp, learning hymns and poetry all the way,--I
wonder if she remembers "There is a City Bright". Hig and I practically "broke the Sabbath"
by climbing Knapp's Hill on a week day! (Phrase from Mrs. Speer). We timed it at thirtysix minutes up and thirty-five
minutes down--(Note: Hig holds out for the reverse). An achievement of Hig which I venture to say he can never
repeat was to walk with us from Colebrook to North Stratford without sitting down-at the age of six. (Note: legal
minds will please note absence of the comma.) John walked the twenty-six miles from Camp to Colebrook and back
again, (the last eleven alone, but still "pursuing"), at such an early age that words fail me,--shall
we say in the cradle? (Confession: no, of course we didn't hate ourselves for doing it--but we didn't hate the
walking either. And we had always heard that Drs. Speer and Erdman thought nothing of walking "both ways",
to Colebrook. If ever any people walked for pleasure, it was "the Camp Diamond people". (Miss Dougherty
outside the Church doors in New York, waiting for them to open at Elliott's and Holly's wedding, said, "I
came to see the Camp Diamond people", as if we were a special brand. ) At least we were of the last generation
to whom the roads were free. As cars began to come, we scorned the occasional proffered lift.
Driving. When people started to bring cars to Camp, John
Snyder was "a rapid driver". That was before we knew about Rudie. (Perhaps I will stop enumerating rapid
drivers here.)
Teas. Of course we were not always in motion. We had teas,--Mrs.
Speer, every day; she would never have been permitted to curtail that service.
Masquerades. And masquerade parties, notably. the one
given by Mrs. L. Taylor for Mrs. William Borden, for which these two estimable ladies concocted for each other
a species of harlequin suit, not to say clown costume. (See pictures.) My husband went as "a Navajo Rug".
Picnics. For those who did not want to walk all day,
there was the custom of the picnic, often in the old "Rambler", seating twelve souls and drawn by four
horses. Sometimes it was a "ride and tie" picnic, for which schedules had been made in advance, as to
just which six, nine, twelve, or fifteen miles would be walked by each person. The Rambler waited at the three
mile points. A ride and-tie was engineered by Elliott alone. No one else ever combined the sufficient executive
force and love of humanity, as Elliott did from the age of about fourteen. (He was mercurial, as Saint Paul was
mercurial,--working on the hay-wagon one summer--and the next summer on the high road to Scotland,--and to preaching
in Saint Giles Cathedral.) No one could be selfish on such a picnic, because Elliott was Elliott, (and Marnie was
Marnie too). For these and similar reasons, everyone wanted only to give everyone else the best of all possible
times,--and did.
There was always a pattern of picnics, some of them for the smallest children. Does not everyone who attended recall
the picnic-de-luxe engineered by Mrs. Speer and my husband, with elaborate trestles and tables built elegantly
in the little meadow beside the bridge at the Mohawk crossing, on "Mrs. Cross' road"? Less pampered persons
were permitted to fish down the Mohawk to meet us who had been Conveyed in vehicles. And how we sang, "Let
Us with a Thankful Mind" before supper, and "As O'er Each Continent and Ocean" after it? And how
the children liked it--and the Barons too? The hilarious supper party, and the quiet evening hush at sunset.
Mr. Coleman had a "lean-to" built on Sunset Hill for campers on the young side, and many courageous parties
spent nights under its shelter, and flashed their signals to citizens at home at the Chalet, or at Stony Point
when marshmallow roast or bon-fire was in progress. Miss Thompson has a long-time note of promise still outstanding
to camp there, under tutelage of John. (Note: Suggestion for persons anxious to improve the Camp in summer of '41;
why not a project to rebuild the lean-to?).
Bon Fires. These are in themselves a custom, everyone
remembers the crackle and the sparks against the darkening sky,--and the marshmallows and hot dogs at the Druid
Fireplace built by Mrs. L. Taylor outside Stony Point above the "Tarn."
Knapp's Hill. I have spoken repeatedly of the institution
known as Knapp's Hill; it was preceded by the institution of Sunday dinner,---chicken and ice cream, candied ginger
and English walnuts,-- (but no cake,--unfathomable lack, to a benighted Southerner),--all becoming traditional
together; and followed by the institution of Sunday supper, (canned pears predominant) ,--and Sunday evening Church.
All together acquired the value of symbols, a sort of sacredness. (See above, on Sacraments.)
We really loved our Knapp's Hill clothes; schools of thought varied on shoes, all the way from hob-nailed boots
down the scale to sneakers. I still possess the khaki "pants" that Margo Stone cast on the poorbox in
1916--(and hope I always will). And I still cherish my old brown knicker suit, (though it cannot be possible that
I forget realities and expect to grow young again and wear it down some kind of celestial stream, or up some celestial
hill?). Actually I have not worn it since 1934 when I accompanied some eight of my children, adopted and otherwise,
to the Franconia Notch. I was walking with Lou, my new daughter-in-law, Rudie's bride, who wore superb modern slacks--and
a stranger gazed at us and said, "Those two women have on bloomers", (just as we were looking at the
"Great Stone Face").
The story of the last time I went to Knapp's Hill is connected with Dr. Brister, who was getting a little older,
and it must be confessed, a little heavier, but whose priceless sense of humor was transcendent unimpaired. (I
think it was immortal, and I think he has it still.) A young couple had come to the Camp, Mr. and Mrs. Douglas
Neale, (he the son of our China Inland friends, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Neale). The young wife was an adoring bride,
and Douglas may be excused for saying that he did not see any hardship or difficult walking or "roughing it"
in our vaunted Camp. He thought it was pretty smooth. Dr. Brister's eye was bright with glitter; he confided his
subtle intention to Rudie, (who was still a bachelor so that the date is approximately fixed; I think it was 1932).
They warned off young children, as Betty Schlichter was then,--and all delicate souls,--but the rest of us set
off unsuspecting. Of course the conspirators led us intentionally off the trail. Dr. Brister had been the leading
advocate of the North Clearing route during its entire history. For decades he had upheld the claim that Knapp's
Hill was incomplete without the North Clearing, and we had joyfully leaped its horrid hummocks over seas of mud
and muck. But that day we all fell into swamps, and sank and rolled in bushes; Betsy Ann Ristine, lovely and innocent,
stumbled in black mire; Helena Schlichter and I fell into each other's arms in fourteen bogs, feeling somewhat
abused; John crashed and well-nigh perished,--"the young and yare,"--the old,--the fair--all fell. Sharp
sticks came up and hit us, the moss turned to slime, we fell again. We were scattered; each thought he would never
see the other again in life. Rudie was early beyond his mental depth as to any clue to the real trail--and before
that bloody day was over, Dr. Brister himself was lost, completely and finally and gloriously and forever lost
to the Knapp's Hill trail. I had known it for a generation, but I never went to find it since that day. Nor I believe
did Dr. Brister. I will say for Douglas Neale that, although he encountered hardships at the last, he never complained
nor questioned, and the slim voice of his forgiving wife came loyally, gently, at regular intervals, through the
forest, "Douglas, where are you? Douglas, where are you?" And for Dr. Brister I will say, the culprit,
(the only member of the group dishousled, unannelled, so that he could not go to Church that evening),--he never
complained of course, and he never gave away the double, guilty secret that he lost us all on purpose, and then
got lost himself; and if the Douglas Neales ever read this tale, it will be the first time confession has been
made that it was all for their benefit and that they were worthy guests of honor. Whether the secret dawned on
them, and they kept their counsel too, in transit, as it did on some of us old veterans, this deponent knoweth
not.
Riding Horses. For a pleasant interlude, I will mention
the brief custom of horseback riding. The summer that Mr. and Mrs. John Stone of Haverford came to Camp (not the
Stones of Chicago) with their son Freeman and two daughters, the Farm children had two ridable horses, and the
little girls rode over the hillsides bareback or otherwise, Harriet and Peggy Stone, Betsy Ann Ristine, Catherine,
and others. But all the boys with one accord refused to ride,--saying "horses were sissy because girls rode
them", (thus forgoing unanimously a part of their rightful education--"All they, like sheep").
Swimming. Swimming in the lake, another natural sport,
has always found a pattern,--regardless of stones underfoot and storied leeches throughout the water. Originally
we swam at the far Northwestern end of the Lake, rowing to it from the dock. Henry and Karl made a float in 1923.
In 1927 during the Boys' Camp Year an alleged "sandy" bottom was discovered at the right of the boat
landing, and a new swimming pier and raft were built to supplant the old ones. We have gone through all the American
history stages of "Only Yesterday," from the serious costumes with long black stockings, to the scanty
swim suits of today. The greatest achievement in the pond was.that of Edith Dreyer, who after a lifetime as an
invalid learned to swim there and thus taught herself to walk.
Fishing. Fishing recurs in every chapter. It permeates
the story. Like Fishin' Jimmy's dog, which was "a fishin' dog", as you all know,---this is a fishin'
Camp.
Sailing. Sailing little or large boats on the pond, though
occasional with the children, was not done as in my childhood at the seashore ;-- (we made our own boats in the
nineties). Sometimes a sail was added to some canoe or rowboat.
Golf. Golf was early played at the Balsams, where Dr.
Adam, followed by a large gallery, drove first into one lake, then into the other ;--and where the Pastor was caddied
by "the boy in khaki pants", (H., Jr.). More recently the Colebrook links are used--by the Ristines,
by the Corums, (who never let luncheon make them late for golf--and get through in time to do the errands for us
all), by the Hutchisons and others.
Colebrook.
I have hardly mentioned Colebrook; the village street, tea at Polly's Place, dinner at the Monadnock, bread at
Alice Carr's, shopping at the Houghs', soda at Dickson's or Stickhey's, (Dr. Dickson lurking upstairs in the dentist's
office,--he pounces !--And lo, your fears are ended). Come down to the street again: the florist, the Carnegie
Library, Vancore's, Lombard's (now Gosselin and Gilkey), Earle Fuller's, Cummings', Fruit Store and Grocery and
Restaurant, Stevens Variety Store, Daniel Stevens. Stop in the Bank. Turn the corner: Ruth Schurman and good talk
of Portsmouth and New York; the Episcopal Church. Then Dr. Noyes and Mona, (the vision of a "country"
(?) doctor's practice). Then "Mr. Little has got the mail and the corn,"--kind as always. Mrs. Little,
when she was living,--with her plants, her family pictures, listening for Harold on the Radio. The shoe mender,
the barber, all friends, all neighbors,--and Oh, how all-American. The Baby Parade, Old Home Week, the Congregational
Church, the Colebrook House, the Railroad Station, full of years and memories; the house near the railroad where
Rudie almost failed his automobile license test, (our prince of' motorists forgot the horn; the examiner's wife
whispered, "the horn", --and all was well). The bridge to Vermont across the Connecticut River, the great
blue shadow of Monadnock, the clouds, the lights at night, the movie on Saturday evenings, the popcorn or chewing
gum, again the soda, the mail. This is America, dear homely beloved America. But here we verge on the larger American
Scene. Let us get quickly back to Camp--to the barns, and the kittens and to playing in the hay!
Musicals. One pattern of interest in recent years has
been the "Entertainment" given chiefly by our friend and thirty-year chauffeur, George Washington Patterson,
assisted by the boys and girls who were working at the Camp. At one of these musical affairs, the star talent was
supplied by Mr. Sisco, the Postman, and all his family. At another Harry Lythgoe performed the magician's art.
Earlier the summer concerts were recitals by Ida Brown, a very beautiful young colored woman who helped in the
kitchen, a professional singer with a really lovely voice.
Natural Phenomena. The great eclipse of the sun made
a brief pattern in 1932. (See John's pictures of us all on the steps at Stony Point with dark masked glasses across
our faces, and of the eclipse itself.) Northern lights and shooting stars in August have been more frequent. The
great New England hurricane of September 23, 1938, came after the Camp was closed and damaged the trees around
the Lake and on the Big Pond Road. (I do not know in what year a trail had first been mowed around the North West
end of our Little Pond to the Big one. It was already a carriage road in 1908 when I first saw it.) It had always
been closed in with fine trees. Like so many disasters, the hurricane opened a new view.
Trips "down the Stream." Of all institutions
the best, for those who could go, was the trip "down the stream"; beyond the Big Pond you were launched
on that new watershed and walked down the Swift Diamond to the Dead, to Hellgate, to Pond Brook and Dixie Dam and
the Beaver Dam, or to Nathan's Pond. These names are magic, and this was "the true country of the soul."
You were wet and dirty and tired for three days or more; you got practically no sleep; but "speaking conservatively,"
(as Gamaliel Bradford quotes the Southern divines in re General Robert E. Lee), I suppose there never was a better
thing than the trip down the stream. Beyond the Balsams lay another route, by way of Aker's Pond, to Greenough
Pond, "that central spot" (which isn't near anything at all, but where one somehow felt at home), immortalised.
Dr. Speer's map of the whole enchanted region, drawn on the greasy bread paper, has the place of honor on the Chalet
wall in the "front living room,"---comparable only with his other paper map of Persia and the Near East,--in
the "back sitting room"--which has received additions from the Harrisons and Hutchisons.
I am sure we all felt the same about "going down the stream"--and were glad that when Dr. Speer and Dr.
Stone no longer came to lead this enterprise, Dr. and Mrs. Corum continued it for the younger children for a little
while, until they knew that country, too. I suppose it is impossible to love it now, when cars take us across New
England in a day, as we did when it was "multum in parvo" to us. ("Come, we shall pierce this painted
film at last, Here is our own true sky," as Margaret Widdemer says).
The stream trips recall my husband first of all, and the Stones, especially Libs and her father; Elliott, Marhie
and Bill Speer, and their father; and the Wilders. On one occasion we were joined by Mr. Frank N. Buchman of the
Oxford Groups,--and he told us how "crows are black the whole world over." We knew him well and pleasantly
and respected his good judgment; (he had arrived from the Balsams in new khaki suit with a sort of four-day lunch
of "half-spoiled pears," as we frequently reminded him); when urged to talk with the young college man
in charge of the crew of lumbermen, he said, "Speer and Wilder,--you fellows speak to him--he would know I
was only a tenderfoot."
I remember especially one trip in 1914 in the opening days of that August--"the future all unknown" ;--and
another in 1919 (when the War was one year gone--and John was one year old) ,--a large party. The pictures show
John and Bill Strong together, father and son, Robert Speer and Robert Wilder, each with three of his bairns. This
was the trip on which Marnie and I conducted, with Grace, Ruth and Dorothy Wilder, the "Christian Discussions"
(originated at Northfield by Mrs. Porter of New Haven),--"Is a Lie Ever Justifiable?" etc. Mr. Speer
remarked that they sounded "more like religious controversies." One of the place-cards, for our learned
and saintly brother from across the seven seas, read:
"Mr. Wilder would be milder
if he only could, He sweeps the floor from door to door,
he also brings the wood."
Ten years later John Mahy came back with his bride-remembering the four days of that trip as "the best time
he had ever had, and hoping everything would I~e just the same." You never knew which part was best, the day's
walk in the forest, the talk about the camp-fire at night, the clink of our hob-nails on the stones, as we struck
out through the first cold brook in the morning, or the emergence into sunlight and open space as we got home.
Managers. Meanwhile all this time the pattern at Camp
was going on as usual with its strong tide of steady underlying daily life. And I cannot close this chapter without
taking off thirty hats to the managers who have run the Camp and kept house, for thirty seasons, and to all those
who have helped them, too, for without these Institutions "Camp Diamond would not have been there."
I can only name a number of the hostesses as they came and went. Miss Anna Bailey was before my time; I recall
especially the two Misses Shuttleworth from Baltimore in 1908 and '09; Edith Frick (Mrs. George Hummel), who, accompanied
by her mother, her daughter Ruth, and her husband, when he could come, was presiding and central genius for a long
time. She was followed (after groans of regret on my husband's part; and his classic advertisement; and eventually
with profound and everlasting satisfaction) by Miss Henrietta Thompson (alias "Tommy"), who has now been
central spirit of the "Camp Diamond Company" for these I won't say how many years. You know her, Reader--and
how her ferocious advertisement of the annual candy sale belies her kindly inward heart; aided and abetted now,
beyond words to tell, by Miss Eleanor B. Klemm, (our own "Klemmy"), who specializes in "the ministry
of flowers."'
The Workmans of the Boys' Camp year (Mr. and Mrs. and two sons) and Miss Mitchelson of Bryn Mawr and Baltimore
were shorter incidents. A Miss Hood volunteered early, while there as helpful guest, but did not eventuate as housekeeper.
Miss Margaret Thompson ("Fip") has helped her sister occasionally, (so named for "Fist in pocket,"--her
bark being worse than her non-existent bite, the darling).
Helpers. Time would fail me to mention all the good workers
we have had there. Their faces flash across the memory almost by the hundreds. No one else of course stands out
like Walter Klebe, who came to us as a boy, returned after the War to his cabin above Sunset Hill, and married
Una Little, at the Farm, where they have taken charge "lang years syne". ("But my name is Coleman
and I own the Camp, I'm from the Chalet and my feet are damp. Too late, too late. You cannot enter now,"--author
unknown); Elizabeth the other cook, who ruled us all; Ida with the lovely face and voice; Cynthia and Charles,
whose cooking we can't wait to get back to; the boy who wrote the poetry in 1938; and Eddie Reber long ago, who
missed his high school commencement because he had signed up for his first job on a certain date; he learned by
mail that he had won the school prize. Eddie won the lasting affection and respect of Judge Swartz and my husband;
he made a superior record at West Point and has been for some years a distinguished officer in the United States
Army,--all part of the pattern.
Some of us remember Mr. Aaron Haines, "the wood pecker," who came from the furniture factory at Beecher
Falls, (Mr. H. Little's brother-in-law, I think), and built the cabins and all the hand-made furniture with their
inimitable natural wood ;--last seen by me in 1909. Many of us know Guy Kidder, who was said by Dorothy Wilder
to be "so attistic"; he gave us shingles to pin our paintings on. All of us think now of Emma Snyder--in
war-time Africa, (for whom see Chapter
XI).
In the pattern of chauffeurs we recall Mr. Snyder's Jimmy Haag, who took us all riding; Mrs. L. Taylor's Walter
Heddings; David and Robert, who drove the Ristines; and especially our George Patterson and his family on their
"estate" beside the pond.
Faces continue to rise,---Joe Cart coming up from Colebrook to plant the trees along the Street for Mrs. Taylor;
the Stones' "Kate," who would go driving with the boy who invited her "if he had a face like a slit-in-a-pie";
old Julia holding the babies; Frieda Frick and Bertha Huegel; "real Rachel"; the little girls from Framingham
Normal School who were always drying their long hair after swimming, like the Lorelei; the twins from China; the
recent fine girls from the Pennsylvania Bible Institute; Esther in 1940, such a little young professor ;--but time
would fail me to tell of "these all," and a hundred others. (One thinks of Sir Henry Newbold's lines:
"Draw near, my friends, let none be last or first.
* * *
Great hearts are glad when it is time to give.")