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:

O what does it mean, to those men who (except for the short furlough) have been four years in exile! They give no sign; motionless as so many statues; the black chin straps merging faces, and hiding what may be there. The June air stirs the soft edges of the black plumes, floating them off as one; the sunset glitters on buckle and bayonet; the great garrison flag curls and uncurls its mighty folds. "It may be for years and it may be for ever," before the men of that front rank will look upon the scene again. They have hated it, sometimes, and longed to get away, but now they know how well they love it. What things those old hills and they have gone through together! from the forlorn pleb days until now. And even with that thought, the band lapses softly into another mood:

and every heart answers to the pleading of "Auld Lang Syne."

For these classmates, after to-morrow, will be scattered to the four winds. Some, not to meet again till they are grey-haired men; never all to stand together, until the day when before the King "in his glory," "shall be gathered all nations." Believers or unbelievers, they think of it now. They may not speak nor touch each other, nor turn the head, but they think.

It is as well, perhaps, that "The girl I left behind me" puts in her word just here, and you have to laugh, partly because you were so near crying. But Lang Syne and Sweet Home have the last saying, as the band comes back to its place.

Parade goes on, and for once everybody is "present or accounted for." The orders are published, the standing read (not always, in these days), and then the graduating class come forward, and with dress hats off and held at the correct angle, shake hands with the Commandant and have a short address from him. And while the little company pass down and stand in line before the trees (not that either, now), the old Commandant turns hastily away from the show, and seeks his own front door. It is a long ago "Lang Syne" that he remembers, and far better than these youngsters, he knows what all this means.

But the music begins again, with another change. "I see them on their winding way" fills all the air. The lines break up; and buckle and bayonet, sash and plume, come gaily past the seats, and then as they pass the waiting graduates, again the plumed hats come off, while cheers ring out in eager greeting from their comrades marching by.

"I know I shall cry when it comes to that!" said a gay young first classman to me. And I have no doubt he did. But there are no lookers-on in front of them, and the old plain tells no tales.

The next ten or twelve waking hours are little but hurry and rush. The big hop on hand for society men: with farewell visits, last ends of packing, and countless bits of red tape to be tied in regulation knots. Then last looks at the river, and hands laid lovingly and for the last time upon some of the old grey rocks.

In front of the library a platform is raised, and draped with the star-spangled banner, and a canvas canopy stretches across from tree to tree. Strong ropes wall in the space below, where stand the chairs, rank after rank, and as the morning hours run on, sentinels guard the ropes against all intruders. The seats, of course, are, first of all, for cadets and people of the Post, but just there does the dear general public wish to sit, and for whom the chairs are placed affects them not at all. So, for an hour or more, there is a sort of running fight—a skirmish line—all round the lines of rope, and the sentries well nigh meet their match. Demands, complaints, exclamations, are loud-voiced and many, and neither orders nor fixed bayonets win much respect.

"Those are the orders, ma'am."

"I'm not responsible, ma'am."

"No, ma'am, no one allowed inside the ropes."

"Sit there? Those seats are reserved for the mothers, ma'am."

"But we are the mothers," cried one good dame to the stony official. And as the guard turned to ward off some new intruder, one could but laugh at the adroitness with which she slipped in behind his back, to be again ordered out. At last come dignitaries in such very full feather that the crowd stands back and becomes a trifle more modest. The hands on the clock move on, cadets who were wandering about with mothers and friends leave them and go off to barracks. Men for the platform come leisurely along, sure of a good place; the upper ten for the seats below make more speed, seeking the best. Then the superintendent, the adjutant, and all the glittering people in train of the Board of Visitors, mount the platform, and make it a study of sheen and colour. Drums sound in the distance, then nearer, and the whole battalion comes marching down. They halt at the back of the crowd, stack arms, and the graduating class file in and take their seats.

There is a short prayer from the chaplain, "Hail, Columbia!" from the band, and then the address—or, maybe two. From the president of the board generally, followed often by words from some high ranking officer, or some notability in civil life. Addresses sometimes wise, sometimes more—otherwise—than one could wish; very seldom vivid and instinct with fire. The country figures, of course, and "this Institution," and the flag, with the service, in a mild sort of way. All eyes are fixed upon this particular class, and the army welcomes it with open arms. And the cadets have done well, and the professors have done their best. On the whole, the sort of speeches to which you would like to apply a match and bring them to either a blaze or to ashes. How rarely—Oh, how rarely!—have these veterans in camp or council one word of real cheer, wisdom, and fire, for these "youngsters," these smooth-faced new recruits.

Perhaps it makes less difference than I think to the grave young men waiting there, bare-headed and absorbed; they have been at such high pressure, and have so much else to think of. They listen, and applaud, from time to time, and generally in the right place. Once in a while you may notice that just there the Southern hands are silent.

More music follows, and then the adjutant with his stack of diplomas comes to the front and stands behind the Superintendent, or whoever is to give them out: in the old days, it was often General Sherman. One by one he takes the parchment from the adjutant, and the names are called off in order of standing.

"Harvey Linton!" A tall, dark-haired young fellow rises from the grey mass, comes to the foot of the platform, and with a low bow takes the credentials for which he has toiled so bravely.

"I congratulate you, sir," says the donor; "not so much for being at the head as for the hard work which has put you there,"—and Linton bows again, and goes back to his seat.

"Yes, he has done very well—ve—ry well," so his father in the crowd answers friendly words, trying hard to seem unconscious that his son has carried off first honours.

"Anson Dent!" and this time it is a broad shouldered Wisconsiner, followed by a Virginian, a fair haired Hoosier, and all the rest. But you notice other differences among the men. For while some smile and bow gratefully, others give the briefest sort of nod, and some none at all. Some flush, and some grow pale, and some hands almost grab the diploma as if a right had been long withheld. And one casts furtive glances towards a certain bewitching bonnet in the crowd, as he goes to his seat, and the next sends a deeper gaze across the gay lines, seeking a face and dress the plainest there, but the best beloved in all the world; while many see only the friends a thousand miles away. One man unrolls his diploma and studies it with all his eyes, his neighbour plays with his, as if it were the veriest trifle—a mere bagatelle.

"Charlemagne Kindred!"

And I am bound to own that this man went forward in a dream. With one swift glance at Mr. Wayne, he did catch the loving interest in that face, but the rest of the people might as well have been a fog bank. He was feeling so much that he seemed not to feel at all, until when they broke up, and Twinkle pressed through the crowd, crying:

"Where is my mother! I want my mother!"

And then Magnus could have shaken him, for daring to put his own heart-cry in words. Indiscriminate cheering was not the fashion in those days. A specially popular man, or one who had done his work against special odds, might have some hearty plaudits. But generally the applause was kept for "the last man," who by brilliant carelessness or industrious breaking of regulations, footed "the immortals." Of course, they all cheered him. Had he not kept someone else from being "last man?"—even now and then (it is whispered) closing up the class end so that no one else could fall through. But after all, somebody must be last, so cheer him on. He may outrank you yet, in life.

The scene changes. Everyone rises to the "Star-Spangled Banner," there is the benediction, the cadets march away to the "Left Behind Girl" once more; and then girls present, who will not accept the situation, tear along to the front of barracks to hear the new orders.

The companies are drawn up in line, never again to stand together there, and the adjutant publishes the orders for the last time.

It is a long reading. Lists of the men who graduate, of the men who go on furlough, and of the new cadet officers; and again the friendly chin-straps do the part of words, and "conceal thought." But if you are near enough, and know the faces, you can see a gleam in the eyes of the men who are to wear chevrons, or gloom on the faces of some who are left in ranks, while the furlough men are almost dancing. But not even a half-inch stir, anywhere.

When the reading is done, and they break ranks, then indeed frolic breaks loose, and every sort of thing is on hand. Graduates rush to their rooms, clasping a hand here and there as they go, to put off the grey once more and forever. Furlough men also "scoot" away, eager to come out in "cits" for the journey; while the others hug and congratulate each other in a threefold tangle, sometimes; the new officers hurry to put on their chevrons; and (lest the fun should be one-sided) are now and then caught and borne away and put under the hydrant by the zealous yearlings.

Meantime the sallyport fills up with girls, matrons, friends, old graduates, and people in general. The gay overflow pours out into the area of barracks, all waiting to see the young lieutenants and the furlough men shine out in "cits." And they are about as different from each other, when they come, as they were in the old candidate days. One tall man in an extra tall hat, the next neat and harmonious down to his small handbag, and this one just a trifle loud and mixed. Twos and threes and one alone, hardly to be known at first, with their canes and neckties. The furlough men shine all over with joy, the young graduates have thoughts. So this face grows grave over a handshake, and this other stalwart fellow breaks down in his words of farewell, and leaves them unsaid.

Mr. Wayne stood there with the rest, watching for Magnus, and then having a word with him from time to time, until that matter-of-fact regulation drum beat the call for dinner, and the new cadet officers marched the men away.

The air is still full of hurry, for most of those who are going want to take the down boat, and there are a few last calls to pay, and some unfinished business with the commissary or the "Com." But one way and another the area is cleared, the men slip out of sight, and graduation is over. Few words may tell the rest.

Mr. Erskine had passed away from this earthly life, during that very week in June; and it was a very pale and grief-stricken girl, much needing him, that Magnus took in his arms when he reached home. And later on in the summer there was a quiet wedding, with just a few classmates in full-dress uniform to light up the room, and Mr. Wayne to join the two hands in a bond which should never be broken. And their first post? What does that matter? However, it was one with plenty to do, and some things to bear; a good place wherein to shine as the Lord's true servants, and an excellent one from which to look up to Him.

For the rest, it stood on high ground, with a fine outlook, and a fair climate. It was called Fort Content.