Practice for Maypole dancing, rope wreaths made of evergreen, monotonous piano tunes inkling for days—will soon be ended after today’s program.

At quarter to six there was a May program of dances with long chains of green and flowers, colored dresses, curled or flying hair, extremely pretty young and older girls. Three were dressed as Folly in red, green and yellow wigs, cutting antics and capers as they waved long red, green and yellow fingernails while leaping into the air, tossing heads. Mrs. Griego says she never wants to play any of those tinkling tunes again, and I never want to hear them. But the whole springlike affair was pretty, from the crowning of Barbara in white filmy gown among her maidens in waiting, to the last chain-flower dance around the queen. Gene sat close by, his head still with that beaten, battered look, swollen here, sunken there, and eyes tragically not normal.

We visited No. 2 barracks cubicles again where sheet partitions are going up until it looks like a combination Pullman car and trailer. They are having such fun. It is the happiest place in camp, a hive of activity and release, while the other dorms stew in their own sour juice and become more and more ingrowing. Fildeys have the trickiest place, with a tiny kitchenette curtained with red check napkins cut up, used wisely and well. Compactness is the keynote, with vast ingenuity displayed. The ex-Fathers House, now Family Unit, is said to be a good exhibit too. None of them have time to worry about rumors or lack of rumors. They are too healthy and busy with creative ideas budding on every branch of activity.

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