After dinner she read me a list of the things I was to take with me to camp, among which were several sorts of life preservers, an electric bed warmer and a pair of dancing pumps.

“Why not include spurs?” I asked, referring to the pumps.  “I’d look very crisp in spurs, and they would help me in climbing the rigging.”

“But some officer might ask you to a dance,” protested mother.

“Mother,” I replied firmly, “I have decided to decline all social engagements during my first few weeks in camp.  You can send the pumps when I write for them.”

A card came to-day ordering me to report on March 1st.  Consequently I am not quite myself.

Feb. 27th. Mother hurried into my room this morning and started to pack my trunk.  She had gotten five sweaters, three helmets and two dozen pairs of socks into it before I could stop her.  When I explained to her that I wasn’t going to take a trunk she almost broke down.

“But at least,” she said, brightening up, “I can go along with you and see that you are nice and comfortable in your room.”

“You seem to think that I am going to some swell boarding school, mother,” I replied from the bed.  “You see, we don’t have rooms to ourselves.  I understand that we sleep in bays.”

“Don’t jest,” cried mother.  “It’s too horrible!”

Then I explained to her that a bay was a compartment of a barracks in which eight human beings and one petty officer, not quite so human, were supposed to dwell in intimacy and, as far as possible, concord.

This distressed poor mother dreadfully.  “But what are you going to take?” she cried.

“I’m going to take a nap,” said I, turning over on my pillow.  “It will be the last one in a bed for a long, long time.”

At this mother stuffed a pair of socks in her mouth and left the room hastily.

Polly came in to-night and I kissed her on and off throughout the evening on the strength of my departure.  This infuriated father, but mother thought it was very pretty.  However, before going to bed he gave me a handsome wrist watch, and grandfather, pointing to his game leg, said: 

“Remember the Mexican War, my boy.  I fought and bled honorably in that war, by gad, sir!”

I know for a fact that the dear old gentleman has never been further west than the Mississippi River.

Feb. 28th (on the train). I have just gone through my suit-case and taken out some of mother’s last little gifts such as toilet water, a padded coat hanger, one hot water bottle, some cough syrup, two pairs of ear-bobs, a paper vest and a blue pokerdotted silk muffler.  She put them in when I wasn’t looking.  I have hidden them under the seat.  May the Lord forgive me for a faithless son.