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The
Camp
Mon., July 13, 1925
There
had been so much rain lately that our brook gushes and foams
down the mountain into the lake just as it does after the
melting of the snow. I have been using one of its shallow
pools as an icebox and one morning when I went out to get
food the cupboard was bare. After some hunting I found the
butter and bacon way down under the bridge, but a whole
quart of milk had disappeared entirely--swept out to sea,
no doubt.
Recently while picking raspberries in the pasture I heard
a peculiar snort and turning just in time, saw three deer
waving their white tails high in the air as they leaped
over the fence and bounded out of sight. Also thrilled by
discovering two pink lady-slippers, I transplanted them
in front of the house for Mother.
Bill and I are having great adventures with the East Dorset
Water Works which Bill's grandfather had owned. When he
died, maps of connections and shutoffs from the main pipes
running down the town's two streets could not be found.
So Bill with Charley's help has dug and dug until every
shutoff is located, repaired or its good condition verified.
We had to be sure at night that lanterns were lit near the
holes dug in the roads. One night it was already dark when
I placed the lanterns and not being very familiar with the
locations, I walked straight into a hole and down, just
as neat as could be, landing on my feet. However, I did
not make such a neat job of climbing out, for the top of
the hole was above my head and the sides steep and slippery.
Another night we were in bed when Bill began to wonder and
worry about those lanterns, afraid that Charley, who was
supposed to attend to them, had forgotten and that somebody
would fall and hurt themselves. So up we got, throwing on
coats over our pajamas, and down to East Dorset we steamed.
Luckily the lanterns were in place, thus easing Bill's mind.
Back in bed, this time we slept.
Until today when I came across an old white cloth window
shade in Grampa's attic, I had been unable to find anything
suitable on which to make a map of the water works. The
material, length and width of the shade are just the ticket.
Careful measurements have been taken and the location of
every connection, every house and almost every tree in town,
sketched in. From now on we will know where the shutoffs
are alright, alright.
Today Mr. Shaw's cook, a singularly thin and angular woman,
stopped on the path around the lake, and gazing up at the
bungalow with her arms akimbo, asked, "Where does Mr.
Shaw's Dr. Burnham live?" (Answer: "here.")
"If this is not the Big House can I go to see hit?"
(Answer: "yes.") Returning, she observed, "My
God, what a 'ouse; my God, what a rookery! Mr. Shaw, 'e
'as a strong, 'ansome 'ouse."
At the other end of the lake, Mr. Shaw lives in two buildings,
one a stone "Big 'ouse" and the other a wooden
dining room and servants' quarters. But here at my Dad's,
both bungalows are on a par, one primarily for guests.
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