West Point Colors

by Anna Bartlett Warner

XLIII
THE HUNDREDTH NIGHT

Oh, who will leave West Point retreats,
A hundred days to come?
Oh, who will walk the city streets,
A hundred days to come?
Oh, who will wear their suits of cits,
Oh, who will boast of spooning fits,
Who'll lose their cents but not their wits,
A hundred days to come?
—West Point Howitzer of '93.

The January examination that year came on and went off, bearing with it but few wrecks. One or two hard-working men who were cut out for lines of life where mathematics counted less; with two or three careless ones who coveted lines where there was no work at all. And now in everybody's mind the cold days and hard studies ranged themselves in a shortening vista, with June at the end. June! the short word for first-class camp, furlough, yearling camp, and graduation. While to Charlemagne Kindred and many another, was added in the thought of friends at home who had promised to grace June with their presence. Some men talked about this, but he never did—at least, not in full. To his roommate he did sometimes speak of his mother and her coming, but not of his sisters; never of Cherry. No one knew that she existed, except the men who had been there, and they had been very much thrown off to the other girls even then. And as Magnus was extremely popular at West Point, there were always girls at hand to suggest unlimited chaffing, without crossing the continent to find occasion thereto. Letters came and went in troops, of course, but so they did for other men. Three girls he never heard of wrote to Magnus, desiring a correspondence, and he turned the letters over to Mr. Trent, who had quite a lively time. Thus, one way and another, the weeks swung on, and Washington's birthday was close at hand.

"One hundred days to June!"

So rang out the joyful tidings in the Mess Hall one snowy winter morning, making the old place on a sudden all summer with warm exultation. It was almost beyond belief; and the fourth classman detailed to announce the date might have been chaired and borne back to barracks on the shoulders of the crowd, had such doings been allowed at the Academy. As things were, however, all that could be given him was the further privilege of announcing next morning, that the days had dwindled to ninety nine.

But just in here came the Hundredth Night extravaganza; like Hallowe'en, or the Carnival, or any other special occasion when wits run wild.

If I should try to give you the details of any one particular Hundredth Night frolic, I might either make anomalous blunders or else mark out and specify some one special year, and so date my story. Let me rather, then, give a chance medley from many celebrations, of things that were done—or might have been done—only vouching for the general truth of its details.

Of course Magnus Kindred was in the forefront of everything, with his untiring energy, fine voice, and ready wit; and no beavers could have worked harder over a winter house, than these men over one winter frolic. Plans, dresses, scenery, jokes, and poems, with here and there an elaborate mock-machine; what patience, what perseverance, what endless fertile wits, they did display. Every Saturday afternoon, every minute of release from quarters, went into the work. Ladies were called upon for hints and materials; good-natured officers gave their accoutrements and their advice. The very professors lent their coats to the wicked boys who were preparing to "skin" their benefactors, in the only way possible to cadets.

For the men in grey may not argue, remonstrate, or petition; may not even ask why. "Theirs but to do and die," as they themselves would put it; until the Colour Line comes round, or the Hundredth Night. Then, twice in the year, they are allowed to state their opinions, grievances, and desires, though still within certain limits. Woe be to the man who ventures to disagree with his instructor in the section room; but at the Hundredth night he may make what fun of him he can—within limits.

Of late, however, the censorship over these frolics has been so strict that they are shorn of their old glory. The wild garden effect has changed into more "correct" growths, well trained and trimmed: less distinctive, less individual. Wits will not play without space to play in. But in those times of which I write, it seems to have been thought that steam pent up was more dangerous than the same blown off; and that the quips and jibes and flings, so dear to cadet hearts, were most innocuous when well shaken up and aired twice a year.