were strictly
limited. The knickers were not particularly successful, the legs
frequently being carried so high up that there was no space into which
the body could be inserted. Every one had to bathe in the sea before
he got any breakfast. I can still see ravenous boys staving off the
evil hour till as near midday as possible. No one was allowed in the
boats who couldn't swim, an art which they all quickly acquired. There
was, of course, a regular fatigue party each day for the household
duties. We had no beds--sleeping on long, burlap bags stuffed with
hay. A very favourite pastime was afforded by our big lifeboat, an old
one hired from the National Lifeboat Society. The tides flowed very
strongly alongshore, east on the flood tide and west on the ebb. Food,
fishing lines, and a skipper for the day being provided, the old boat
would go off with the tide in the morning, the boys had a picnic
somewhere during the slack-water interim, and came back with the
return tide.

When our numbers grew, as they did to thirty the second year, and
nearly a hundred in subsequent seasons, thirty or more boys would be
packed off daily in that way--and yet we never lost one of them. If
they had not had as many lives as cats it would have been quite
another story. The boat had sufficient sails to give the appearance
to their unfamiliar eyes of being a sailing vessel, but the real work
was done with twelve huge oars, two boys to an oar being the rule. At
nights they used to come drifting homeward on the returning tides
singing their dirges, like some historic barge of old. There was one
familiar hymn called "Bringing in the Sheaves," which like everything
else these rascals adapted for the use of the moment; and many a time
the returning barge would be announced to us cooking supper in the old
factory or in the silent gorge, by the ringing echoes of many voices
beating with their oars as they came on to the words:

"Pulling at the sweeps,
Pulling at the sweeps;
Here we come rejoicing,
Pulling at the sweeps."

As soon as the old boat's keel slid up upon the beach, there would be
a rush of as appreciative a supper party as ever a cook had the
pleasure of catering for.

An annual expedition was to the top of Mount Snowdon, the highest in
England or Wales. It was attempted by land and water. Half of us
tramped overland in forced marches to the beautiful Menai Straits,
crossed the suspension bridge, and were given splend