CAMP LIFE

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 19, 13 April 1927, Page 12

CAMP LIFE

PRIZE-WINNING ESSAY “Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife.” Those simple words of Thomas Hardy’s are the embodiment of the camping spirit. Who does not yearn to leave the clamour and turmoil of the busy city for a few days in the open? None can resist the call of camp life. To the tired business man it presents joys unimaginable. In the keen, pure, open air his mind is freshened, his strength renewed and be returns to work with new enthusiasm, new energy. The influence of the outdoor has a tremendous effect on us. By day the warm sun and brown earth, and by night the open sky and twinkling stars develop to the full the camper’s love of Nature’s own wonders, which are, alas, unknown to many. There are many types of camps and campers. There is the Territorial camp with its rows upon rows of symmetrical tents, its well-laid-out parade grounds, kitchens and mess-tents. And the familiar sight of the canteen besieged by exuberant youth shows that even the stern hand of militarism leaves no mark on these carefree men, while neither fatigues nor drill dispel for long their indomitable hilarity. Then there is the family camp. Father, in battered hat and disreputable trousers, wanders away, after cutting the wood, to seek peace and content in his oldest briar. Mother, vainly attempting to keep the smoke out of her eyes and cook a meal over the obstinate fire, ardently wishes for her little gas ring. The children, gloriously mischievous, begin a wholesale massacre of every nearby tree until the welcome cry of “Tea’s ready” brings them scampering in. The merriest camp, however, is the Boy Scouts.’ The fun begins from earliest morn ■when, as the red sun rises slowly over the dewy hills, they splash and sllout in the waters of some gloriously-cold mountain stream. Outdoor life means a healthy appetite, and though the porridge is sometimes “not quite as mother makes it,” it vanishes like magic. Then comes the glorious freedom of the open, unfettered wilds for the whole day. Far into the distance stretch mile upon mile of bush-clad hills. Every darkened vale calls to be explored; tall trees seem made to be climbed, the view from some lofty hill repays the exertion of the climb and the merry cries of delighted boyhood echo through the silent aisles of the forest. And at night! With the friendly little stars twinkling forth, the boys gather round the magic flame. Still further into the darkness the fiery tongues dart, dispelling the gloom of night from the little circle. Song and laughter ring through the dim forest till the very trees themselves seem to whisper tales of youth and sigh fitfully for days gone by. Thus we will leave them and turn to our last type of camp —the bivouac of the pioneer! Under his rude yet efficient shelter of boughs he sits silently gazing with unseeing eyes into the darkness. What are the thoughts of the hardy man? Does he foresee the rising cities, smiling countryside, and happy families? Or is it his difficulties that plunge him in this reverie? On, on, good man, you have made our vast Empire as it is, but your work is not yet finished. To you we owe our knowledge of the great woods, and our love of the open, so all honour to your name. Beaver Hunter (Denis Glover, aged 14.) STICKS THAT WALK The stick which walks only pretends to be a stick: it is really a big living insect. All its life and all its powers are devoted to making itself like a stick. It is one of several species of the extraordinary stick-insects, and may be well over a .foot long, with great, sprawly legs sticking out in all directions. Now, this remarkable insect is one of Nature’s chief glories in what we call protective mimicry. It is by pretending to be a dried-up old stick that this very funny creature escapes death. Every insect has enemies which seek

to devour it, but Nature does not want any of her species to be exterminated; so, if she does not arm them with stings or poisonous acids, she enables them to live by false pretences. Stick-insects were, once upon a time, easily detected as good for some creature or other to eat. But by living among grass of a particular sort, or more particularly among undergrowth, these insects found substances which screened them from observation, and they began to grow like their surroundings. So, with generation after generation improving, there was gradually evolved in the course of ages, what we now call the walking-stick, or the stick-insect. Because of some of its uncanny ways it is also known as the ghost-insect. It lives in very hot lands, or in the hottest parts of continents which elsewhere are cool. It exactly resembles either parched grass or dried twigs. When it settles upon grass or twigs not one man in a thousand could find it. The scattered long legs, sticking out in all direemons, help the deceit, for they have not the least likeness to living limbs. Not until night does the insect move; and then it gathers itself together with leisurely ease and crawls along, a living walking-stick, to feed on grass and leaves,