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Show I can't recall. It was all in fun, and who cared? We scratched out a tennis court on a perfect clay-court surface. We even played a few sets. But with no wire to stop the balls there was a stiff penalty for missing a stroke. A man with a good serve, especially if he was aided by a breeze, could send the ball whistling downwind for a mile. We danced square dances on that clay flat. We bathed in the little bathhouse and swam in the outdoor pool-and all for free. Often we just peered into the boiling little cauldrons, and we wondered. Our Own "Old Faithful" During World War I, with the party-loving young bachelors away, the place saw little of us. Then one day the Springs multiplied their attraction. That mysterious somebody who pulled the low-budget spa out of an old Saratoga trunk tore a leaf out of Yellowstone's book: he brought forth a geyser. "He" (we never learned his name or saw him) probed for that cavern holding the pool of Hades. Everybody assumed that down under, there was an enormous cauldron of boiling water which, rising, divided itself among the scores of springs when it neared the surface. "He" bored a hole down through the spring deposits. He cracked the last crust. With a savage roar, hot steam and water shot into the air. Nobody in our homestead community witnessed his bringing in the well. But one morning many of us rubbed our eyes and stared at the pillar of steaming water pulsing toward the sky. The jet would subside after, say, 40 seconds. Catching its breath for a couple minutes-much less time than |