NATIONAL NUDES: BARE FACTS OF COLONY LIFE

 By H. Allen Smith

HIGHLAND, New York (United Press) - All arguments to the contrary, it is very embarrassing to have a young woman walk up to you stark naked and tell you that nudism is going to sweep the nation.

The shed-your-pants apostles at this particular nudist camp are serious about it. They appear to feel nudism will do wonders for this world. 

This is your correspondent's first visit to a nudist camp, and this one, operated by Miss Jane Gay, who apparently cuts her own hair, is a little dandy.

There is a man here known only as Button-Button - a short German fellow who gives the impression of a bushel basket full of hickory nuts when viewed from the side. He is bald, and on top of his head is a wen, about the size of a ping-pong ball and a half.

Because of this wen, the nudists call him Button-Button. And whenever he approaches in complete undress, they all begin singing: "When the Moon Comes over the Mountain."

Button-Button, however, is a serious sort of fellow. He doesn't resent the gibes.

"I figure," he told the United Press, "that if they have fun making the joke with me it is their own business, and I am not one to interfere with other people's business."

The camp is far off any traveled highway and overlooks a splendid lake. There were about twenty-five nudists present today, but the average on week ends is eighty. The nudists do not court publicity. But once a newspaperman gets in and convinces them that he is on a liver-and-carrots diet, they can be congenial. In fact, they can pester you to death.

Firmly intending to spend two days in their midst, this correspondent was not in the camp 10 minutes before he had stripped. It all seemed perfectly natural - walking back and forth in front of the dining hall without so much as a pair of shorts on.

Then came Miss Gronlin. She came around the corner, very blonde and very handsome. And she didn't even have shoes on. Your correspondent, a bird lover, became intensely interested in a thrush which was going into a power dive over Bear Mountain.

She didn't go on about her business, this Miss Gronlin. She came right up and said, "Are you Mr. Smith?" Your correspondent never tells a lie.

"I am Miss Gronlin," she said, and she laid a hand on my arm. "Please come and go swimming. The lake is wonderful."

"Miss Gronlin," your correspondent told her firmly in August 1933. "I am not used to this business."

"Oh, that's all right," she burst forth, "the water isn't so deep in places."