The Scientific American Boy; Or, The Camp at Willow Clump Island

"Bill," he was it, the Scientific American Boy, I mean. Of course, we were all American boys and pretty scientific chaps too, if I do say it myself, but Bill, well he was the whole show. What he didn't know wasn't worth knowing, so we all thought, and even to this day I sometimes wonder how he managed to contrive and execute so many remarkable plans. At the same time he was not a conceited sort of a chap and didn't seem to realize that he was head and shoulders above the rest of us in ingenuity. But, of course, we didn't all have an uncle like Bill did.

Bill's Uncle Ed was one of those rare men who take a great interest in boys and their affairs, a man who took time to answer every question put to him, explaining everything completely and yet so clearly that you caught on at once. Uncle Ed (we all called him that) was a civil engineer of very high standing in his profession, which had taken him pretty much all over the world, and his naturally inquisitive nature, coupled with a wonderful memory, had made him a veritable walking encyclopedia. With such an uncle it is no wonder that Bill knew everything. Of course, there were some things that puzzled even Bill. But all such difficulties, after a reasonable amount of brain-work had failed to clear them, were submitted to Uncle Ed. Uncle Ed was always prompt (that was one thing we liked about him), and no matter where he was or what he was doing he would drop everything to answer a letter from the society.

The Old Trunk.

Fig. 1. The Old Trunk in the Attic.

But hold on, I am getting ahead of my story. I was rummaging through the attic the other day, and came across an old battered trunk, one that I used when I went to boarding-school down in south Jersey. That trunk was certainly a curiosity shop. It contained a miscellaneous assortment of glass tubes, brass rods, coils of wire, tools, fish hooks–in fact, it was a typical collection of all those "valuables" that a boy is liable to pick up. Down in one corner of the trunk was a black walnut box, marked, with brass letters, "Property of the S. S. I. E. E. of W. C. I." On my key-ring I still carried the key to that box, which had not been opened for

Fig. 2. The Black Walnut Box. years. I unlocked the box and brought to light the "Records and Chronicles of the Society for the Scientific Investigation, Exploration and Exploitation of Willow Clump Island." For hours I pored over those pages, carried back to the good old times we used to have as boys along the banks of the Delaware River, until I was brought sharply back to the present by the sound of the dinner bell. It seemed that the matter contained in those "Chronicles" was too good to be kept locked up in an old trunk. Few boys' clubs ever had such a president as Bill, or such a wonderful bureau of information as Uncle Ed. For the benefit of boys and boykind in general, I decided then and there to publish, as fully as practicable, a record of what our society did.

Christmas Vacation.

This was how the society came to be formed. Bill, whom I met at boarding-school, was an orphan, and that's why he was sent to boarding-school. His uncle had to go down to Brazil to lay out a railroad, I believe, and so he packed Bill off to our school, which was chosen in preference to some others because one of the professors there had been a classmate of Uncle Ed's at college. Bill roomed with me, and naturally we became great chums. When Christmas time came, of course I invited him to spend the holidays with me. My home was situated in the little village of Lamington, on the Jersey side of the Delaware River. Here we arrived late at night on the Saturday before Christmas. A cold wind was blowing which gave promise of breaking the spell of warm weather we had been having, and of giving us a chance to try our skates for the first time. True to our expectations, the next day was bitterly cold, and a visit to the canal which ran along the river bank, just beyond our back fence, showed that quite a thick skim of ice had formed on the water. Monday morning, bright and early, found us on the smooth, slippery surface of the canal. "Us" here includes, in addition to Bill and myself, my two younger brothers, Jack and Fred, and also Dutchy Van Syckel and Reddy Schreiner, neighbors of ours. It was the custom at the first of December every year to drain out most of the water in the canal, in order to prevent possible injury to the canal banks from the pressure of the ice. But there was always a foot or two of water covering the bottom of the canal, and this afforded a fine skating park of ample width and unlimited length, while the high canal banks on each side protected us from the bitter wind that was blowing. Toward noon, however, the wind shifted and swept at a terrific rate down the narrow lane between the canal banks. We could scarcely make headway against the blow. It was too much for Bill, who wasn't as used to skating as we were. He sat down in a sheltered nook and commenced to think. When Bill sat down to think it always meant that something was going to happen, as we soon learned.

"Say, Jim," said he to me, "have you got any canvas up at the house?"

"No," I replied. "What do you want it for?"

"I want to rig up a skate sail. If you have an old sheet, that will do just as well."

"Well, I guess I can find you an old sheet. Do you think you can make one?"

"Sure thing," answered Bill, and off we went to the house, where I received my first lesson on the practical genius of my chum.

"Bill's" Skate Sail.

Fig. 3. Laying Out the Sail.

The old sheet which Mother furnished us was laid out on the floor and two corners were folded over to the center, as shown in the drawing, making a triangle with base 7 feet long and sides each about 4 feet 6 inches long. The surplus end piece was then cut off, and a broad hem turned and basted all around the edges of the triangle. Bill wanted to work the sewing machine himself, but Mother was afraid he would break something, so she sewed down the hem for us. Then, under Bill's supervision,

Fig. 4. The Tape Tie Strings. she re-enforced the corners by sewing on patches of cloth. Along the diagonal a strip of heavy tape was sewed, leaving loops at intervals, which afterward were cut and provided means for tying the sail to the mast. Tie strings of tape were

Fig. 5. "Bill's" Sail Complete. also sewed at the corners, as shown in the illustration, and then a trip was made to the garden in search of suitable spars. A smooth bean pole of about the right weight served for the mast, and another stick with a crotch at one end served as the boom or cross-spar. The spars were cut to proper length, and the sail was then tied on, as illustrated, with the crotch of the cross-spar fitted against and tied to the center of the mast. A light rope, long enough to provide plenty of slack, was tied to the ends of the mast to assist in guiding the sail when in use. In the meantime I had procured another sheet from one of our neighbors, and Bill helped me make a sail for myself. It was not until long after dark that we finished our work.

Willow Clump Island.

The next day we tried the sails and it didn't take me very long to learn how to steer the device. The wind had changed again and this time blew up the canal. We took the line of least resistance, and went skimming up the ice lane like birds for several miles before we realized how far we were getting away from home. As we rounded a bend in the canal, much to my astonishment, I saw just before us the bridge at Raven Hill, eight miles from our town. We started to go back, but the wind was too strong for us, and there wasn't much room in which to do any tacking; nor could we make any progress when the sails were folded. I began to get extremely tired and rather exasperated at Bill for not having thought of the return trip before he led me such a hot pace up the canal. But Bill was getting tired, too.

"Look here, Jim," he said, "we haven't covered a mile, and I'm worn out."

"Why in thunder didn't you think of this before we started?" I returned.

"How much money have you with you?" was the reply.

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. How much have you?"

A careful search of my dozen odd pockets netted the sum of twenty-seven cents.

"I have fifty-nine," said Bill, "and that makes eighty-six altogether, doesn't it? Isn't there a railroad depot near here?"

"There is one at Raven Hill, and the next is at Lumberville. That is about eleven miles from home."

"Well," said Bill, "at three cents each per mile that would amount to sixty-six cents. Let's sail on to Lumberville and then take the train back."

On we sped to Lumberville, only to find that the next train was not due until noon, and it was now just half past ten.

Time never hung heavy on our hands. Out on the river we espied an island. I had heard of this island–Willow Clump Island, it was called–but had never been on it; consequently I fell in with Bill's suggestion that we make it a visit. Owing to the rapids which separated the island from the Jersey shore, we had to go up stream a quarter of a mile, to where a smooth sheet of ice had formed, over a quiet part of the river; thence we sailed down to the island along the Pennsylvania side.

"What a capital island for a camp," cried Bill, after we had explored it pretty thoroughly. "Have you ever been out camping?"

I had to confess I never had, and then Bill gave me a glowing account of his experiences in the Adirondacks with his uncle the year before, which so stirred up the romance in me that I wanted to camp out at once.

"Shucks!" said Bill, "We would freeze in this kind of weather, and besides, we've got to make a tent first."

We then sat down and made elaborate plans for the summer. Suddenly the distant sound of a locomotive whistle interrupted our reveries.

"Jiminy crickets!" I exclaimed. "That's the train coming through Spalding's Cut. We've got to hustle if we are to catch it."

We were off like the wind, and a merry chase brought us to the Lumberville depot in time to flag the train. We arrived at Lamington at half past twelve, a trifle late for dinner, rather tired and hungry, but with a glowing and I fear somewhat exaggerated account of our adventure for the credulous ears of the rest of the boys.

Organizing the Society.

The camping idea met with the hearty approval of all, and it was decided to begin preparations at once for the following summer. Dutchy, whose father was a member of a geographical society, suggested that we form a society for the exploration of Willow Clump Island. By general acclamation Bill was chosen president of the society, Dutchy was made vice-president, Reddy was elected treasurer, and they made me secretary. It was Dutchy who proposed the name "The Society for the Scientific Investigation, Exploration and Exploitation of Willow Clump Island." It was decided to make an expedition of exploration as soon as we could make skate sails for the whole society.

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