Only the steadfast old hills flung out their hardy colours—and flung them off; decking themselves with an occasional white cap instead. The blue river rolled by in deep foamy wrinkles; the distant Catskills had donned their snow.
No parades now, but noisy drills, with light battery, siege battery, and sea-coast guns, making the hills roar out in countless echoes. Only Battery Knox lay quiet, unmoved in all the commotion, keeping silent watch near the white shaft of "Dade and his Command." While far away beyond the hubbub, a small army of white and grey and brown stones told of other soldiers, who had fought their last battle, and answered to the last command. Very little told there, indeed, but of the soldier; the man almost left out. But on one old, old stone are words to make one's heart leap up for joy:
"He that doeth the will of God, abideth forever."
October ran its bright course, and the shorter, darker days of November came softly in, but very fair, even yet. The hills set forth their rocky heights and fastnesses, stripped now of the softening leaves, and still the cold grey of the stone was warmed and clouded with the wilderness of brown tree stems. And every here and there rose up a tall hemlock or cedar or pine, in its dark, dauntless green, while not a few red oaks still sported the tatters of their autumn flags. Along the river on the lower ground, black alder bushes showed a wealth of "winter berries," beautiful as coral beads, and a close match in colour.
Drills ceased, and dress parade began; and in the dusky time between gunfire and supper the men had chance for a good constitutional upon the well-swept sidewalk of the officers' row. Wrapped in long grey fearnaughts, with steady, swinging step, they went up and down, in ones and twos and threes, almost like an open procession; talking, talking, and discussing. Now the last blunder of the "Com.," now the latest whim of the "Supe"; then the marks of the day. Here, consigning all tactical officers to the prompt dealing of a drumhead court-martial, and here busy with the charms of some fair new girl. Oftenest of all, perhaps, dwelling on Graduation, Furlough, and First-class camp.
But you never saw them walk arm in arm, like other students,—this would strike any stranger. Close together, but both hands free. Perhaps the regulation salute, with its frequent, instant, and exact demands, may be partly the cause of this.
A fellow once hastening over to the hop with a girl on one arm, and her shoes and fan laying claim to the other, passed a certain dignitary with only a bow of the head, and was of course reported.
Going next day to explain and get the report off, he was told:
"Drop the girl! Drop the shoes! Salute, salute!"
Another feature of West Point life which I think would strike unwonted eyes, is the universal opening of front doors at four o'clock. Up to that time, after the midday refection of whatever name, West Point on the plain might be a city asleep, with slow pacing sentries guarding its slumbers. But when the sweet four o'clock bugle sounds out, waking the echoes and the antagonistic dogs, the houses wake up too. Bonnets go on, gloves slide into place, and the fair wearers come forth with a delightful sense of expecting or being expected (for both things are in place), and the thinnest veil of unconcern to hide it all. It is a very pretty scene.