LIII
THE FIRST POST
A ravelled rainbow overhead
Lets down to life its varying thread;
Love's blue,—joy's gold,—and fair between
Hope's shifting light of emerald green;
With either side, in deep relief,
A crimson pain, a violet grief.
—Mrs. Whitney.
I never understand how people can chatter all through the graduating parade. Standing before other people who fain would see, but with their own backs to the show; gabbling on about trains and stages, weather and wraps, to the utter discomfiture of the quiet souls who are straining their ears to catch the "standing," just then read out by the cadet adjutant; and finally pausing long enough to wonder "Whatever is he talking so long about, anyway?"
"Headquarters Military Academy, West Point, N. Y. Special order, No. fifty-nine!" So much with the knowledge that comes by iteration, you make out; but the human wall shuts off the rest. Such people should stay at home.
If you are a stranger and unwarned, you may easily miss some special points in the show to-night. You will not know that, when the battalion comes marching down to the tune of "The Dashing White Sergeant," it means that from fifty to seventy of its men are on dress parade for the last time. And as they come nearer and wheel into line, you will hardly notice, that among those orderly grey figures, there is every here and there one who carries only side-arms, his musket left behind. And when these come out and form a quiet line in front of the rest, you will not guess that they are never again to go through the manual or be mingled with the other men. Also for this night, the Commandant himself steps out upon the ground, instead of the usual officer in charge.
The line is dressed, and then—
"Parade rest!" and then—
"Sound off!"
And with sweet, clear rendering, the band begins to play:
"In cottage or palace,
Wherever I roam,
Be it ever so humble,
There's no place like home.
Home! Home!
Sweet, sweet home!"—