Free A Fistful of Fig Newtons by Jean Shepherd

further trouble.
    We moved out again in a haze of drowsiness. It had been a long trip. The country had turned to farms, Bull Durham signs, and occasional run-down vegetable stands that all seemed to be closed. Old, gray, sagging farmhouses with hand-lettered signs reading FRESH EGGS and HANDMADE QUILTS FOR SALE rolled past. We were in Michigan. It wouldn’t be long now.
    Finally the bus slowed at a crossroad. A rutted gravel road wound off to the north. A swaying yellow arrowhead attached to a tree trunk read CAMP NOBBA-WAWA-NOCKEE 2 MI. The bus exploded in a tidal wave of cheers as it wheeled onto the gravelroad. We were almost there. I felt a wild tightening in the pit of my stomach. In just a few minutes I would be at camp. Camp!
    It was raining even harder now. The ditches on the side of the road were rushing torrents of muddy water. We were among heavy, dripping trees, and the branches intertwined over the road until we were rolling forward through a dark, green-black tunnel. Anxious and subdued, the Chipmunks peered out the windows into the passing gloom. We lurched around a bend and headed down a slope.
    Schwartz hit me sharply on the shoulder. “Hey, look!” He half-rose from his seat, pointing toward the front of the bus. I stared ahead. The windshield wipers slapped back and forth. Then I saw it–a gray, flat gleam through the tangled trees ahead.
    “What is it?” Flick asked, squinting. A tall, sandy-haired Beaver turned a scornful glance in our directions. “What does it look like, stupe?” He nudged the bullet-headed Beaver next to him and said loudly, for our benefit:
    “Jee-zus. They’re getting worse every year. Guys like that wouldna lasted five minutes when we were Chipmunks. Right, Jake?”
    Jake, the bullet-headed Beaver, laughed a grating cackle that boded ill for any Chipmunk who crossed his path.
    “It’s the lake!” I shouted. “Holy smokes, it’s Lake Paddaclunka-whatever-they-call-it!!”
    An expanse of choppy water lay ahead. The short, broad Beaver turned at this remark, his red neck straining again at his T-shirt.
    “Hey, Jake!” he barked. “They don’t even know Old Pisshole when they see it.”
    At this, five or six Beavers began poking each other and making incomprehensible cracks. Jake turned and grinned mirthlessly in our direction. He was missing three lower teeth and one of his ears appeared to be badly chewed.
    “Y’mean none a’you know what Paddachungacong means?”He waited for an answer. All we could do was stare dumbly back. “Well, I’ll tell ya. It means Sacred Place Where Big Chief Took a Leak.”
    Again the Beavers roared in appreciation of Jake’s cutting wit. We later found out he was telling the truth. That’s exactly what Paddachungacong means.
    By this time, the bus had rolled onto a broad clearing that sloped down to the lake. A row of stubby square log cabins with green tar-paper roofs straggled off toward the woods. The bus lurched to a halt in front of a long, flat, low building with a dark, screen-enclosed porch.
    “All right, men, let’s move out.” Captain Crabtree again stood in the aisle, directing the troops. “Watch out for the puddles. And move up onto the porch.”
    The yelling, scrambling mass of Beavers up front charged out the door and onto the porch, slamming the screen doors. We followed quietly, not knowing quite what to expect. The rain had let up, but the mud was two inches deep. My shoes had grown four sizes by the time I had walked a yard.
    “Quit splashing, Schwartz!” hollered Flick as Schwartz kicked up sheets of muddy water behind him. A chill wind blew off the lake. Just before I reached the steps, a sharp sting hit me on the back of the neck. Instinctively, I swatted at it. Already a huge welt was rising next to my left ear. I could see several other Chipmunks swatting at invisible attackers.
    “I see why they got screens all around that porch,” muttered Flick as he scratched frantically at his ribs.
    Inside the