We left the camp with Abu grinning after us, still in the middle of his native dance and by simply crossing the road, we found ourselves in one of the countless counties of Hungary.

Here an exciting activity was going on. Although they called it "Hindu Crinoline" it reminded one of the good old American rope spinning.

The difference seemed to be that you used a special apparatus made from a small wooden wheel from which many strands of cords led out to a big rope ring, instead of using a plain rope. By setting the wheel in rapid motion, you opened up the rope ring into a perfect circle, with which a lot of intricate maneuvers could be performed.

Just to study the construction of the apparatus, we picked one of them up. Immediately we were surrounded by a number of expert crinoline players and were not permitted to let go of the thing before we were entirely and hopelessly entangled in it. With a laugh the boys started to explain the technique — in Hungarian, of which we understood not a word. Demonstrations helped though, and after a couple of trys, we got the knack of the trick and of having acquired a new stunt, we set out anew on our quest. This time in the direction of the Duchy of Luxemburg.

Here the boys were busy establishing camp. They had just arrived, after a delayed trip through Europe. Their tents were flying up one after the other and in the kitchen an intricate layout was taking shape. Our time did not permit us to stay until it was finished, so we went on our way. A few minutes later, after having passed through a swinging gate, we stood at the foot of Mount Ararat, on the top of which we could faintly see the outline of Noah's Ark.

We had arrived in the Armenian camp, and the mountain, very cleverly made of dirt, was a big center display in the camp site. The snow-covered top was salt and the Ark was a small ship model brought from home. The whole display helped us to get an immediate idea of the country which was represented here.

The boys were busily occupied playing Volley Ball, but a leader came rushing up and invited us, in fluent English, to enter his tent.

We settled down, for a short rest, on a hand-woven blanket in the national colors, orange, red and blue and were presented with a copy of the Armenian Scout magazine. We listened, while the leader told of how their nation had suffered for many hundred years, sometimes tinder the Turks, sometimes under the Russians and how their organization bad grown, yet only among expatriate Armenians, never in Armenia.

Involuntarily, we thought of our own organization and its growth through support and compared it with the brave Armenian organization fighting ahead without support.

Right on the other side of the border, we ran into Belgium. The camp was practically deserted. Only the kitchen patrol sat, under a shady tree, busily occupied with potato peeling. The rest of the fellows had gone on an excursion to a swimming pool near by. We just took time to look around for a moment and admire the small altars which were raised in several corners of the camp.

Then we were off again and wandered through another Hungarian county, with tents built of diamond-shaped pieces of canvas taped together in various models, until we entered tinder the spectacular gate of Roumania.

A guard saluted its with his staff and started to show its. around the camp.

We saw the exhibition tent where photographs spoke of the beauty of their country and a great number of national costumes of the handicraft of the people. All the while, our guide was telling us of Scouting in Roumania . . . how it bad been organized along old Roman lines with Legions for councils, Cohorts for districts and Centuries for Troops. He told us of their new Scout Chief, King Carol himself, and his eyes glistened as he described how he had once visited in a Roumanian national camp with young Prince Michael.

We stopped a moment to look at the interesting steam boilers in which the boys prepared their native dishes. When lifting one of the cooking outfits in a certain manner, a spring snapped open and what had previously looked like a protective covering for the boiler, proved to be a stove arrangement.

Proceeding due north from Roumania, we were swallowed up by the huge portal opening into France. The big white structure had, on one side, the emblems of the three French organizations, the cross potent, the bow and arrow, and the Gallic rooster, and on the other, the springing white stag.

Walking under it, we ran right into the information tent, where any number of pamphlets on France were at our disposal. Then we set out to look at the country. Surrounding the big flagstaff from which the Tricolor was waving, was the great parade field. Toward the west, we saw a big cross in front of several small altars; to the east, was the headquarters tent and straight north, the mosque-like structure built by the French Scouts of Algiers and Morocco. With its blinding whiteness, its Maurian dome and its minaret, it looked like an illustration from a "Thousand and One Nights" tale.

As we came closer, we saw at its foot, a hachcha, the tent used by the nomads of North Africa, richly ornamented with blankets, rugs and pillows. Here we were greeted by a young Algerian Scout, who told us — and did we summon to our help all the French words we had learned at school! — that the mosque was not a mosque at all, but a qobba, which is the name used for the mansions of the better situated inhabitants of the towns along the Mediterranean coast of Africa.

And in this boy, who immediately became one of our Jamboree friends, we found the same eagerness to tell us of the customs of his country and the same pride in his native land as we had found in Syria, Armenia and Roumania. And at the same time, we came to understand things which had previously seemed strange to us, but which, when placed in their right perspective, became perfectly natural.

A Coffee Party in Algiers

In Algiers they had no Abu Said to make their coffee, but they bad coffee just the same and we had a sip of the drink, strong as it was, made in the real oriental style, before we lost ourselves among the many provinces of France.

Here we were intrigued by their richly decorated tents. Nearly every French Patrol considers its tent a part of itself, much as Lindbergh considered his plane the other half of his "We." They handle it with special care, give it a pet name and paint on it in bright colors and pictographs, the story of its adventures on hikes and in camp. The decorations on some of these tents were real pieces of art — so were many of the Patrol flags and individual totem poles into which the French Scouts often transform their staves.

Leaving France, a familiar sight greeted our eyes. Right in front of us, a short distance away, from a tall mast, waved the "Stars and Stripes" over our own camp. We considered for a moment whether we should make a landing in America until we discovered the name of the road separating us from it . . . the "Atlantic."

We decided that crossing that would be taking too much of a chance, wherefore instead we proceeded in a west-southwestern direction through a number of beautiful gateways and as many Hungarian Troop camps, until we finally arrived in Iceland Here, again, we had our geographical ideas shot to bits.

Didn't someone teach us that Iceland was a mountainous island, far up in the North Atlantic? Here we found it a part of a flat continent with a climate that was almost tropical.

Walking under the big Viking ship over the gateway, we became immediately part of an interested audience viewing the famous "Glima" wrestling. Two Icelanders in blue tights with belts with many queer handles on them were struggling. Grasping the handles in the belt of the opponent with both hands, each attempted to throw the other with quick upward jerks or by tripping him up. We were amazed to see the quick movements in offense and defense and the speed with which they were ready again, after a fall.

Time was flying and we had traversed but a small part of the Jamboree world, so we were off again, this time crossing the turbulent Rakos River on our way to Lithuania.

We had heard much of this river. According to our guide book the town of Gödöllö was situated on its two banks. But not only that. We had been told how a Scout had done a real Good Turn by rescuing a lady from drowning in it a few days before the Jamboree. We had listened to the story in awe and had not been quite unable to understand why the story teller had disappeared with a red face, obviously trying to conceal some strong emotion.

Now we understood. . . .

Below us was a brook, about one foot wide with approximately two inches of muddy water in it!

So instead of using the carefully constructed bridge, we leaped over it, so that we might, with pride some day, say that we had jumped over the famous Rakos River and see the adoring looks in the eyes of our audience.

And now we were in Lithuania.

From a big rustic tower, two boys were blowing an old signal on quaint, long, birch bark bugles, as we stepped into the camp.

A big exhibition tent gave us an idea of the views of this country, old in traditions, but new on the maps of the world. The boys had decorated their camp as true artists. All around it was a border, in various colors of sand in old Lithuanian peasant patterns and in the center was a likeness of B. P. made of small stones, sticks and shells.

"Good-by-and Hello!"

This time good-by to Lithuania and hello to Denmark!

We had hardly entered under the imposing rustic gateway before we were surrounded by a group of young Danes and led in procession up to a dining fly, erected on a small hill, under a mighty sycamore, where we were greeted with real Danish hospitality.

"Just in time for lunch," said the leader, with a grin. "Trust the sensitive American nose."

We thanked our fate for bringing us to a place where we could eat at the psychological moment. The morning had been so full that we had forgotten that breakfast was a long way off. Looking on preparation of food in so many camps had made us a bit hungry, but it was only now that we really felt it.

"Nothing fancy," declared the host, "only Danish beefsteak and 'Rodgrod.' "

Maybe not fancy to him, but plenty to us, and awfully good. We showed our approval by having seconds of the Rodgrod, a special Scandinavian fruit jelly.

After the meal we were escorted through the camp and had its many features explained to us in halting, yet amazingly correct English.

"We are taught at school." explained our friend,. "Even so ..." we said to him.

In the center of the camp, next to the flagpole, with its red and white flag, was stretched out between several poles, a large skin, on which was written in mighty letters, "Robert Baden Powell." We were told that B. P. himself had written his signature oil this skin at the Second World Jamboree in Copenhagen in 1924. Since then the. skin had been to the other Jamborees and every inch of it was filled with the signatures of Scouts and Scouters from all corners of the globe.

We were particularly intrigued by the "dining rooms" of the Danish Troops. The Scouts had dug trenches in the ground in which they were sitting, using the greensward in front of them for their tables. This dining arrangement proved very efficient all through the Jamboree, except for one afternoon after a shower, when they were turned into what looked like an ingenious "canal system."

The kitchens proved very interesting also with their many types of under-ground fireplaces. And we were naturally gratified to visit the two big Indian tepees which served as the meeting places for a couple of the Troops.

Then finally we walked through the Copenhagen gate with its coats of arms of every foreign country and every Hungarian county represented in Subcamp III.

We had successfully traveled through the whole Eastern Hemisphere. We had been in eleven different countries, had had breakfast in America, coffee in Africa, lunch in Europe . . . and there was yet half of the day and an evening to go.