they were all on their toes. The long, echoing tunnel under the high railway embankment was greeted with resounding cheers. More cheers for the swimming hole just beyond. We drew up at the foot of a steep flight of wooden steps leading up the hill. All piled out with yells. At the top of the stairs stood a rather glum group of forty similar urchins. These responded without much acclaim to the applause of the newcomers. They were the batch going home on the bus. Their week at Paradise was over.
When we left, a few minutes later, the arrivals were already being assigned to their bunks in the various camp bungalows, and were looking around exultantly at the plentiful "scenery" and evidences of plentiful food to come. But the temper of the returning load was not quite so mirthful. They also had been up since an early hour, but play had languished as they had put on their clean clothes and had carefully bundled up their other stores in small newspaper wrappings. One small cynic told me that he had learned the necessary connection between green apples and castor oil. Another, with flaming red hair, seemed to have tears in his eyes. Whether these were due to green apples or to grief I could not determine. But the way they all shouted good-by to Mr. and Mrs. Steel (who have charge of the camp) showed how they appreciated their week's adventure. "Good-by swimming hole!" they shouted, and then "Good-by snakes!" explaining that they had
