The night birds cease their songs, so entranced are they at the human warbling. The only feathered night prowler who will not keep quiet is the owl, who persists in joining in the chorus, his part being a question, Who? Who? and then flying quickly away.
These are all innocent little amusements to while away the time until "quarters" sound.
We have other pleasures of a different nature, but those I will leave for another chapter.
"Another evening gone!" you say. "Why, I have done hardly anything at all, and meant to do so much." It is that way every evening. We plan to do all sorts of things, but what with games, songs, feats of strength, spinning of yarns, the time goes all too quickly.
The instructors walk about telling their charges to get a move on. Everybody goes to his tent to undress quickly, plan for another day's fun and frolic; then the bugler blows "Taps" and once more we wrap our covers around us, lying down to peaceful slumber. "So long, Ned." "So long, Joe." "Good night, fellows."
