vat t yyyTTT Published Weekly by The Bural Publishing Co., 
v kjli . 333 w . 30 th St. New York. Price One Dollar a Year. 
NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1, 1924 
Entered as Second-Class Matter, June 2, 1879, at the Post 
Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March 3, 1879. 
NO. 4819 
Ten Nights Spent 
INSIDER PUBLIC PROPERTY.— 
Trustees are beginning to fence in 
sclioolhouse grounds and to post 
signs, “No Parking,” in front of 
them. It looks very much as though 
we who have sufficient regard for 
those who will follow us to clean up the litter that 
we necessarily make, and enough gratitude for the 
accommodation that we enjoy to leave public prop¬ 
erty in as good condition as we find it, must soon 
suffer from the acts of indifferent, slovenly and 
sometimes wilfully destructive Summer tourists. 
AN IDEAL CAMP.—In a 10-day trip through New 
England this Summer, my wife and I found occasion 
to camp for the night upon but one school ground, 
that attractive one in the turn of the road at West 
with one of the finest concerts we had ever heard. 
A number of them wore bells, evidently tuned to 
harmonize, and the soft tinkle of these, as it came 
through the evening air, was delightful beyond de¬ 
scription. Without knowing it, we were camping 
only about 10 miles from President Coolidge’s old 
home; we had passed within six miles of it on our 
way. When we discovered this in the morning we 
went back, of course; but that had nothing to do 
with tenting at night. 
IN THE CATSKILLS.—That was on the third 
night out. Our first night was spent in the Catskills 
of our own State. We were trying to reach the 
Ashokan dam and reservoir when five o’clock warned 
us that camp must be made. Not caring to stop by 
the main road, we turned and drove for a half mile 
in a Tent 
THE SECOND NIGHT.—The second night found 
us on the main street of Pittsfield, Mass. No place 
to camp there, so we drove through and up to the 
crest of one of the surrounding hills. Only a mile 
or two out, and still within the city limits, we came 
to a pleasant farmhouse with closely mown meadows 
surrounding it. Permission to camp near the house 
in one of the meadows was cheerfully given. The 
city lay at our feet, Greylock towered above the 
other mountains in the north, and about us was a 
quiet, as undisturbed as though the 50,000 people 
within stone’s throw had vanished. We were in the 
heart of the Berkshires, one of the chief seats of 
New England aristocracy, the home of families of 
oldest and bluest blood, and a call at the next house 
in the morning in quest of a pail of water disclosed 
This is S. P. Porter of Medina, O., and a group of his little friends. Mr. Porter says he is “74 years young” and a great friend of children. The first statement requires 
strong proof—the latter is self-evident. Mr. Porter’s recipe for retaining his youth is very simple. “Keep up with the children and never grow away from youth.” 
Woodstock, Vt. Having crossed the mountains from 
Rutland, on our way to Mt. Washington in New 
Hampshire, we reached the pretty valley in which 
this schoolhouse is situated in late afternoon, just 
as it became time to cast about for a night’s outdoor 
lodging. The clean, smooth yard and well-kept 
buildings, in a place that some would have con¬ 
sidered lonesome, since there was but one occupied 
house in sight, offered an ideal spot for a night’s 
rest. It was one of those places that you seem to 
run across so often early in the day, but find far 
apart toward night. We accepted what we were 
sure would have been a cordial invitation from the 
good people of the district, if they had known of our 
arrival, and drove into the yard by one of the big 
maples. To unstrap the tent and folding bed from 
the running board and stretch the former from the 
top of the car to the ground, enclosing the bed and 
making a dressing room, was the work of but a few 
minutes. It took little longer to get out the box of 
provisions, light the little folding gasoline camp 
stove and make coffee for supper. A spring at the 
nearest farmhouse furnished a pail of water, and the 
cows, as they came to the barn for milking, obliged 
up a narrow mountain valley in search of a good 
camp site. Showers were threatening, and we had 
had no experience in camping, we knew nothing of 
where we were, whether we were within civilization 
or invading the haunts of fierce mountain brigands 
and, more than that, we were dead tired. Fortune 
favored us, however, in soon disclosing a beautiful 
mountain brook that turned sharply across the road, 
enclosing upon two sides a grassy plot on which some 
disused road-making machinery stood. It was evi¬ 
dently at least semi-public property, and we took 
possession. Across the way was a small, unpainted 
house, though some plants in a window, a few red 
hens in the yard and a puppy by the door gave the 
only evidence while we were there that it was occu¬ 
pied. The puppy, to lys credit, soon came across to 
extend the keys of the mountain gorge and accept a 
piece of cold meat. Rain fell before the tent was 
fully in place and night closed in upon two tender- 
feet, one of whom began to display some evidence of 
skepticism with regard to the joy and freedom of 
outdoor life, all of which quickly faded into a sound 
10-hour sleep before the sun appeared over the wood¬ 
ed mountain tops. 
a farm family only the children of which could 
speak English. 
MOUNT WASHINGTON.—In late afternoon of 
fourth day we stood at the foot of Mount Washing¬ 
ton, gazing at the huge bulk that towered, dark and 
gloomy, above us. We were too late for the after¬ 
noon train to the top, and had no desire to approach 
it by way of the automobile road upon the other 
side, so we turned back to the Twin Mountain camp¬ 
ing ground of the National Forest Reserve. Here 
we found a well, dug and curbed for tourists’ use, a 
stone fireplace, with wood nearby, and a roadside 
cabinet holding maps of the region and a visitors’ 
register. Several cars had preceded us and, after 
supper, their occupants sat about the fire, whose 
warmth was needed, and chatted awhile before bed¬ 
time. It was our first stop at a public camping 
ground, and one that gave us a good impression of 
the work of the forest reserve. 
THE MAINE COAST.—With all contrast possible, 
the fifth evening found us looking out upon the ocean 
from the coast of Maine. A fee of $1 had entitled 
us to .30 ft. of bluff at the ocean’s edge in the pri¬ 
vately owned camp ground adjoining the beach at 
