# Travels in Philadelphia/The Paradise Special

THE PARADISE SPECIAL
The big bus known to thousands of Philadelphia children as the Paradise Special was standing ready at 1621 Cherry street. Inside, in one of the large classrooms of the Friends' Select School, twenty small boys, each carefully tagged and carrying his bundle, were waiting impatiently. It was half-past eight in the morning, and the bus was about to leave for Paradise Farm with the Tuesday morning consignment of urchins for the summer camp run by the Children's Country Week Association. The doctor was looking over ​them and one poor youngster was trying to conceal his tears from the rest. The doctor had found a spot in his throat and he had a high temperature. He was not to be allowed to go this week; his turn would have to come later. They were all a bit impatient by this time. Most of them had been up since half-past five, counting every minute.
If you enjoy a shrill treble uproar, and find it amusing to watch a busload of small boys enjoying themselves at the top of their versatile powers, I recommend a trip on the Paradise Special. Throughout the week the bus is busy taking children and mothers to the various farms and camps run by the Association, but Tuesday morning is boys' day. Not the least amusing feature of the trip is to watch the expressions of those the bus passes on the road. It creates a broad grin wherever it goes. That shouting caravan of juvenile glee is indeed an entertaining sight.
There were nineteen boys on board when we left Cherry street—an unusually small load for the Paradise Special. Others were going out by train. But nineteen boys, aged from seven to thirteen, comprise a considerable amount of energy. Three or four of them had been to Paradise Farm before, and immediately took the lead in commenting on all that befell. Mickey Coyle was one of these, lamenting that as he would be thirteen in September this would probably be his last visit. "But I'm lucky I ain't dead," he said philosophically. ​"I've a brother twenty years old who's dead. He died on my birthday. He had bronnical pneumonia and typhoid and flu."
We passed along the Parkway. "This is a Bollyvard, ain't it?" said one. Entering the Park, another cried, "Is this the country?" "Sure, them's the Rocky Mountains," said Mickey in scorn.
The first question in the minds of all the passengers was to know exactly how soon, and at what precise point, they would be "in the country." The Park, though splendid enough, was not "the country." As we sped along City Line road there was intense argument as to whether those on one side of the bus were in the country while those of us on the other side were still in the city. Another game that seemed to underlie all their thoughts was that this expedition was in some way connected with misfortune for Germany. Every time we overhauled another car or truck—which happened not infrequently, for the Paradise Special travels at a good clip—that car was set down as German. Every time a swift vehicle passed us we were said to be in danger of being torpedoed. For some period of time we were conceived to be a load of German prisoners who had been captured by the Yanks. Then again one small enthusiast shouted out that we were "bullsheviks" who had been arrested.
Once satisfied that we were really in the country—and they were not quite at ease on this point ​until the last of the suburban movies had been left behind—their attention focused itself on the question of apple trees. Even so experienced a Country Weeker as Mickey (this was his fifth visit to the Farm) was vague on this point. To a city youngster almost every tree seems to be an apple tree. And everything that looks in the least reddish is a strawberry. Unripe blackberries along the hedges were hailed with tumult and shouting as strawberries. Every cow with horns was regarded a little fearfully as a bull. And a cow in the unfamiliar posture of lying down on top of a hill was pointed out (from a distance) as a "statue."
After we passed Daylesford and Green Tree and the blue hills along the Schuylkill came into view, the cry, "Look at that scenery!" became incessant. Any view containing hills is known as "scenery" to the Country Weekers. When the scenery began eleven-year-old Charley Franklin could contain himself no longer. He began to tear off the clean shirt and new shoes in which his mother had sent him from home, and, digging in his bundle, hauled out a blouse and tattered pair of sneakers that satisfied his idea of fitness for the great adventure. He proudly showed me his small bathing suit, carefully wrapped up in a Sunday comic supplement. His paper bag of cookies had long since been devoured, and the question of how soon another meal would come his way was beginning to worry him. Then we turned off the high road, past a signpost saying Paradise Farm, and ​they were all on their toes. The long, echoing tunnel under the high railway embankment was greeted with resounding cheers. More cheers for the swimming hole just beyond. We drew up at the foot of a steep flight of wooden steps leading up the hill. All piled out with yells. At the top of the stairs stood a rather glum group of forty similar urchins. These responded without much acclaim to the applause of the newcomers. They were the batch going home on the bus. Their week at Paradise was over.
When we left, a few minutes later, the arrivals were already being assigned to their bunks in the various camp bungalows, and were looking around exultantly at the plentiful "scenery" and evidences of plentiful food to come. But the temper of the returning load was not quite so mirthful. They also had been up since an early hour, but play had languished as they had put on their clean clothes and had carefully bundled up their other stores in small newspaper wrappings. One small cynic told me that he had learned the necessary connection between green apples and castor oil. Another, with flaming red hair, seemed to have tears in his eyes. Whether these were due to green apples or to grief I could not determine. But the way they all shouted good-by to Mr. and Mrs. Steel (who have charge of the camp) showed how they appreciated their week's adventure. "Good-by swimming hole!" they shouted, and then "Good-by snakes!" explaining that they had ​killed four small garter snakes in the meadow. They cheered up greatly when they saw a freight train puffing along the railway, and it was evident that we would have a fair race with that train all the way in to Overbrook. Immediately the train was set down as a German menace, and the cheerful chauffeur was implored to do his best for his country. It should be said that we beat the German train to Overbrook by about one hundred yards.
The latter part of the ride was marked by a sudden panic on the part of the passengers concerning sundry nickels and dimes which seemed to have disappeared. Nathan Schumpler, aged eight, turned his blouse pocket inside out a dozen times without finding the dime he was sure he had had. This was a terrible blow, because he told me he had lost a quarter through a crack in the porch the day before. This started all the others exploring. Knotted and far from clean handkerchiefs were hastily untied to make sure of the precious coinage for homeward carfare. At last Nathan found his dime, in the very pocket he had been turning upside down for fifteen minutes. When they got back to Cherry street they were overjoyed to find a number of toy trains and tracks waiting on the floor. My last sight of the Country Weekers was when they were playing with these while their guardians checked off their lists and made sure that each had carfare to take him home and knew how to get there. "Yes," said the chauffeur, as he ​lit a cigarette and watched them disperse, "they're a great bunch. But if you want to hear noise, you should listen to the girls when they go out."