Read Online A Fistful of Fig Newtons by Jean Shepherd - Free Book Online Page A

Pale and shaken, the fat Chipmunk slumped down next to Kissel. He had a wad of gum stuck on his knee. The lieutenant threw the bus into gear and we slowly pulled out of the terminal, amid frenzied waving and cheering among the assembled parentage. We rumbled out into the gray, rainy street, and the last sight I had of my family was the familiar image of my old man holding my kid brother by one ear and swatting him on the rump.
    Captain Crabtree stood swaying in the aisle. “In three hours we will arrive at camp. We will make one stop, in precisely ninety minutes. If you have to go to the toilet, you will hold it until then.”
    I had already felt faint stirrings. Now that he mentioned it, they flared up badly. I had been so excited that I’d forgotten to go after breakfast.
    “We will now sing the ‘Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee Loyalty Song,’ ” Captain Crabtree shouted over the roar of the engine. “Here, pass these songbooks back. I have counted them. I want every one of them returned at the conclusion of the trip.” He needn’t have worried.
    He handed out mimeographed blue pamphlets. There were mutterings here and there. The fat Chipmunk had closed his eyesand appeared to be holding his breath. I was handed a songbook. The lettering on the front read
Nobba-WaWa-Nockee True-blue Trail Songs
.
    “All right, men. The ‘Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee Loyalty Song’ is the first song in the book. It is sung to the tune of ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm.’ You all know it. Ladadeedeedadadum,” Captain Crabtree sang tonelessly. I opened the book. Schwartz and Flick, their hats jammed down on their heads, had their books open, too. Life at Camp Nobba-WaWa-Nockee had officially begun.
    The captain produced a pitch pipe that looked like a little harmonica. He blew briskly into it, producing a wavering note that was barely audible over the bellow of the worn Dodge motor.
    “Now, sing it out. All together. I want to hear some life in it.” He blew into his pitch pipe again. Led by the Beavers, we began to sing the “Loyalty Song”:
    “Nobba Nobba-WaWa-Nockee …
    EeeIiiEEEEEiii OHHH …
    With a weenie roast here … and a snipe hunt there …
    EeeeIiiiiEEEEEEEIiii OHHHH
    With a leathercraft here … and a volleyball there …
    EeeeeIiiiiEEEEEEiiii OHHHHH.”
    There were thirty-seven verses, which made reference to pillow fights, totem poles, Indian trails, and the like, with the concluding blast:
    “Colonel Bullard is our chief …
    We love him, yes we do
.
    Nobba Nobba-WaWa-Nockee
    EeeeIiiiEEEEEIiii OHHHHH.”
    Again the bus exploded in a roar of cheers and stompings, with a few hisses and a couple of raspberries from the Beaver contingent. The rain drummed on the sides of the bus as we hurtled toward our gala summer.
    “Boy, lookit those great jackets all the big kids have,” said Schwartz enviously.
    “Yeah,” said Flick. “And what’s that yellow thing on the front?” Over each boy’s heart was a golden emblem.
    Kissel, who overheard us, squinted closely at the Beaver sitting in front of him. “I dunno,” he stage-whispered. “It looks like a picture of a rat holding an ice cream cone.”
    The Beaver turned savagely, baring yellow teeth, his bull-like neck bulging red with rage. “That’s the Sacred Golden Tomahawk of Chief Chungacong, you stupid little freak!” he snarled. “Hey, Jake! You hear what this stupid little kid called the Sacred Beaver?”
    “Yeah, I heard. I think we gotta teach ’im a lesson, eh, Dan?”
    Dan Baxter, as we were later to find out to our sorrow, believed we should
all be
taught a lesson.
    The fat Chipmunk, without warning, again hurled himself to the floor of the bus. A skinny Chipmunk yelled out, “HEY! He’s doin’ it AGAIN!”
    Captain Crabtree rose ominously from his seat, staring back into the swaying bus. The fat Chipmunk lay sprawled in the aisle, kicking his feet like a grounded frog, his eyes clamped shut, his arms held rigidly to his sides. I had seen that