For days and days groups of Army Service Corps men going around the Post clipping the trees, mowing the grass on the Plain, and daubing with black paint the cannon on Trophy Point have been heralding the approach of June. The odors of the fresh grass and of the tar in the gutters are exhilarating smells for every cadet in the Corps. There are buoyancy and hope in their manner and a decided note of anticipation in the air. This feeling of anticipation is the greatest charm of a cadet’s life. It really begins with the candidate before he enters the Academy. He anticipates his entrance; then as a plebe, he looks forward with even greater pleasure to the day of his “recognition” when he shall become an upper-classman. Words are too weak to express the eagerness with which, as a Yearling, he sees the spring slip by and June arrive bringing with it his long desired furlough. And then he has before his eyes the seeming El Dorado of graduation.

Our plebe, Mr. Ducrot, is especially on the qui vive for the passage of the days. Ever since the 245 snow left the Plain and the surrounding hills, and the first little blades of grass began to peep through the boggy spring earth, his attitude toward life has somehow seemed different. For the past ten months he has led the life of an obscure being, like the silk worm in his cocoon spinning his silk. He has almost completed his work of the plebe year and is about to emerge from his shell. For a few weeks he is seized with the languor of spring. The drills while not irksome seem unduly long; the lessons harder to prepare. But as the days of May fly by he feels his wings growing stronger and stronger and the spring fever is forgotten in the anticipation of being a Yearling.

At last the first of June arrives! At reveille even, everyone is happy. He tries his best to answer about a dozen upper-classmen who ask him all at once, “Mr. Ducrot, how many days until June?”

“No days until June, sir!” he replies in a voice that vibrates with joy. It is hard for Mr. Ducrot to believe that the day that he has so long anticipated is here. It has been so long coming. He cannot be mistaken, however, for all around him are cadets in fresh white trousers, the first time since the previous summer. He knows that for years and years it has been the custom for “the Battalion to go into white” on the first of June, at reveille. Only a few days now remain before he will put aside his humility and meekness and be received by the upper-classmen upon terms of equality. 246

The great metamorphosis or “recognition,” as it is called, occurs upon the day before graduation, immediately after the return of the Battalion from supper, and just prior to the graduation ball. On this night, at supper formation and in the Mess Hall, the upper-classmen are particularly severe. They “brace” and “crawl” the plebes more than ever before, filling the air with, “Get your shoulders back, Mr. Ducrot, more yet! more yet!” or, “Draw in that chin!” On this night, however, the whole affair seems humorous, for the plebes have completed their year and the upper-classmen are now about to extend to them a warm handclasp. In order not to let the plebe training fizzle out or have an inglorious end, the rigor of the “crawling” that for months has diminished little by little is all at once revived with great earnestness and enthusiasm. No one minds, however, but regards this last evening’s treatment more as a “grind,” or joke.

After supper the battalions form in front of the Mess Hall and march back to the barracks in the soft June twilight. To the observer at a distance, a roar seems to arise from the ranks as the corporals, sergeants, and lieutenants hurl corrections at the plebes. The noise continues until the Corps wheels into line to listen to the orders of the first captain standing under the trees in front of the barracks consulting with the Officer of the Day. The various instructions and orders having been announced he commands: 247

“Dismiss your companies!”

At once the upper-classmen in the front ranks turn and cordially grasp the hands of the plebes and slap them on the back, the first time in a year since their arrival at West Point. All of the dreariness of a year’s subjection is dissipated by the affectionate and fraternal welcome in the Corps proper by the upper-classmen, whose strong grips are to the plebe a sufficient reward for the hardships of the year just completed. Friendships whose seeds were sown, but prevented from growing by the great gulf between upper-classmen and plebes, now find their fullest opportunity for development. The Rubicon is passed, and our plebe lays aside his sackcloth-and-ashes manner for the more man-of-the-world one of a Yearling. And richly does he deserve this recompense for his manliness and grit! Following Kipling’s advice in If, he has for a long year (sometimes by force majeure) filled “the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,” so that his “recognition” by his fellow cadets means that he is stamped approved, and that he is entitled to associate with real men.

Mr. Ducrot is now entitled to enjoy all the privileges allowed the cadets by regulation and by the custom of the Corps. As a plebe, tradition ordains that he shall not attend the hops, or be allowed the social recreations of the upper-classman, but now the bars to the pasture of pleasures 248 are removed and he scampers in like a young colt to enjoy his new freedom.

The two months of camp life that follow graduation give cadets plenty of opportunities to enjoy their spare moments. The entire forenoon is taken up with the various kinds of military instruction, with infantry drill, practical military engineering, target practice, artillery drill, equitation, swimming, and what not, but the afternoon is at their disposal from the return of the Battalion from dinner until parade at five-thirty. They have many diversions from which to choose. Close by the camp are five tennis courts for the devotees of the racquet. Upon the Plain is a good golf course for those who like this sport and speak its unintelligible language. A selected number of the First Class defy the afternoon heat playing polo down on the Flats, while others don their bathing suits and go canoeing upon the river. The less energetic throw their blankets in the shade of the trees near the Y. M. C. A. tent and abandon themselves to a siesta, or to the delights of some good book.

Then, there are the social beings who spend most of their time in the society of girls. They are the “spoonoids” of the Corps. After dinner they flock en masse either to the visitors’ seats or to the hotel where mothers, sisters, sweethearts, friends and friends’ friends gather around admiringly. It must not be imagined that all “spoonoids” are alike. There are the virulent kind who are never 249 in camp during “release from quarters,” who are never seen on the athletic field except in a dress coat. They are always rushing some girl, first one, then another, and are of the genus that are never quite on time for any formation. They come running into camp at the last minute, breathless and excited, and are peevish if everyone doesn’t turn in and help them into their belts for parade. Then there is the more moderate “spoonoid,” the unobtrusive sort, who, when he goes walking with a girl, dons his comfortable gray shirt and white trousers, and sets forth carrying a few deceptive golf sticks. Lastly, there is the timid kind who sneaks into his dress coat and tries to slip out of camp without being seen by his fellows. He really wants to go out but he is a little ashamed of his desire, and he doesn’t want the other chaps to know anything about it. Besides, the chorus of “ahs-s-s-s-s-s!” from all the tents along the line terrify him.

West Point, however, is indebted to these social beings for the touch of romance and glamour that they give to the summer life. Their bright uniforms and the gay dresses of their partners (and the still gayer parasols) are seen everywhere on Flirtation Walk, on the balcony back of Cullum Hall, on the Plain, and chiefly at the visitors’ seats, and their youth and enthusiasm add a distinct charm to the social life.

But the real amusements and pleasures of summer camp come after supper. Thrice weekly 250 small hops are held from eight to ten o’clock and on the other three nights open-air concerts are given by the band.

The hops are the most popular and enjoyed of all the pleasures. The Yearlings have an opportunity of showing how much they profited by their dancing lessons of the previous summer and they flock to Cullum Hall in droves. On hop nights the camp is practically deserted. Some few men who do not care for dancing, and another small group who pose as women haters, remain in the limits visiting one another or reading. The new plebes, of course, are in their tents, silently working upon their equipment. Commencing at seven-thirty, however, a stream of upper-classmen begins passing the guard tents, signing out for the hop, bound first for the hotel or for some officers’ quarters where charming young partners await them. As soon as darkness falls the couples set forth for the dance. As they emerge out of the obscurity of the Plain into the brilliant light that pours out of the main entrance of the hall they appear for all the world like a lot of summer insects drawn to a bright electric bulb.

It is a charming picture that the cadets in their uniforms and the girls in their pretty dresses make as they gather in Cullum Hall for the dances. It recalls all of the stories of beauty and chivalry that poets have so often idealized. As I watch them today, their youth tempts my imagination 251 and it runs away, but as a matter of truth the reality is not quite so ideal.

The cadets, even the most imaginative, see things more clearly and recognize that some of the girls that come to the hops were not the subject of the poet’s thought when he wrote his odes to beauty. There are all sorts of girls. There are young girls, and some not so young; pretty girls and homely ones; vivacious girls and inanimate ones; intelligent girls and dull ones; and occasionally some few attend the dances who are so little favored with feminine charms that for years the cadets have called them “L. P.’s.” These damsels are usually the friends of friends, or maybe, the friends of friends of friends—very distant as you see, and the poor cadet is called upon to pay off his friend’s social debt. He does it well, too, for the dances are all by card so that every girl has her partners arranged beforehand, and she leaves the ball having experienced the intoxication of a great belle.

The cadets have no little fun over these girls, and if by any chance they know them ahead of time they make an attempt to ensnare one of their classmates, saying:

“Say, Jim, there is a peach of a femme coming up for the next dance, will you ‘drag’ her for me?”

He elaborates upon her charms with the deceit of an experienced politician until accommodating Jim accepts.

Most men, however, are wily about these unknown 252 friends’ friends, but occasionally they are caught. I know one cadet who was asked to take such a girl to a hop. He replied that he would not do so himself but that he would find some other cadet. With true Irish persuasiveness and unexampled Blarney he prevailed upon a classmate. When the latter was making out the card of the supposedly beautiful girl (but in reality a true L. P.) his first thought was to offer some dances to the promoter of the young lady. The arch-plotter, however, innocently replied:

“I’m awfully sorry, Joe, but my card is full.”

This answer appeared exceedingly strange to Joe, until he beheld his partner for the dance. Then the base ingratitude of his friend so enraged him that he at once broke off all diplomatic and social relations.

So wary have the cadets become lest they be taken in, that when a fellow cadet comes out into the hall to get one of the stags to dance with a girl, he is at once the object of suspicion. When he asks his friend to take a dance because the girl’s partner failed to turn up, or what not, the friend instantly demands:

“Where is she?” “Where is she?”

Some of the more astute cadets then point out the prettiest girl in sight saying:

“There she is; she’s a fiend,” meaning she is all that is to be desired, and lead off their victim apparently in her direction, but by a well-planned movement, the victim is shunted off so that before 253 he realizes it he finds himself bowing before Miss L. P. His comrade has escaped in the crowd, leaving him to “darkness and despair.” Here begins a desultory conversation, not marked by any great intellectual effort.

L. P.: “Do you like to dance?”

Cadet: “Yes, do you?”

(Long pause—atmosphere strained.)

Polite cadet: “Isn’t this a beautiful hall?”

L. P.: “Yes, how many lights are there in the ceiling?”

Cadet: “340.”

(Second longer pause—atmosphere at breaking point.)

Usually a chap relieves the situation by suggesting:

“Let’s go out on the balcony.”

There one can at least console himself with the beauty of the scene, for unless devoid of all feeling, no person can behold the glory of the Hudson from the balcony of Cullum Hall, by night, or better, by moonlight without being greatly stirred.

Two hundred feet immediately below the balcony lies the river, apparently calm and unruffled, but anyone who knows it well visualizes the deep current beneath that flows resistlessly toward the sea. On moonlight nights its surface is agleam from the rays of the full moon standing almost stock-still over the hills that form the river’s opposite banks. Here and there as far down as Anthony’s Nose the obscurity is dotted 254 with lights mostly yellow, but with an occasional red or green that tells of the approach of a boat. Peace and beauty reign over this scene. It is as if one were gazing upon the enchanted garden of a land of fairies. Occasionally the charm and wonder of the river are added to by the passage of a night boat that goes churning by, brilliantly lighted, with its name Berkshire or Trojan outlined in electric lights, and with its searchlight flashing broad beams on the banks, first on this spot, then on the other. The operator plays the beam upon the Riding Hall, then slowly passes it to the Administration building, bathing the tower in light, then to the Officers’ Mess, or maybe some caprice will seize him and up dances the beam to the chapel on the hill, descending as captiously to Cullum Hall. For a few moments the entire balcony is illuminated by the cold light of the searchlight that reveals other cadets and their girls, some seated on the broad granite railing, and others strolling up and down. The beam moves slightly upward, and the beauty of Cullum’s classic lines is outlined against the blackness of the night. Then a jerky movement of the operator’s arm and darkness once more enshrouds the building. The steamer passes on, darting its beam back and forth like a spoiled child, until it rounds Gee’s Point where it is lost to view.

The strains of the music draw all of the couples back to the ball room. A more beautiful hall for a dance could hardly be imagined. Conceived 255 by the artistic brain of Stanford White, it forms a most exquisite setting for the gray and white uniforms of the cadets and the rainbow hues of the gowns. The fine old portraits of West Point’s famous generals, the wall bronzes commemorating their deeds, the battle-torn flags, the Mexican cannon, the names of the great victories of the Mexican and Civil wars, are inspiring surroundings for young men and women. The atmosphere of the hall impels the cadets to be chivalrous and courteous. It would be impossible not to have good manners in such a hall. It is no wonder that the cadets enjoy the dances and that the girls find a certain glamour in the entertainments.

On the nights when there are no hops, the concerts are held, and although lacking the brilliancy of the dances, they have a delightful charm of their own. Twice a week the concerts are given in camp, and once a week in front of the quarters of the Superintendent. Upon these occasions the visitors’ seats are crowded, chiefly with the officers, their families, and guests. Here and there on the parade ground are groups of cadets and girls seated on camp stools. The chaperone sits near by wrapped in a blanket to protect her from the heavy dew of the evening. Perhaps, another group will be made more comfortable by some energetic cadets who spread their blankets on the ground for seats and arrange camp stools on their sides for backs. The band is conspicuously placed on a concrete stand, whose 256 brilliant lights cause the iron supports to cast weird shadows over the listening crowd.

On concert nights the camp is much more animated than on hop nights. Many cadets do not go beyond the hedge or frequent the visitors’ seats, but remain in their tents stretched out lazily upon their blankets, where they “laugh and joke, and talk and smoke, and turn to boys again.” Here, clad chiefly in their underclothes, they comfortably enjoy the music, reveling in the freedom from the stiff uniform.

Occasionally, to add to their pleasure, a squad of plebes is summoned and ordered to prepare for Olympus a delicious “brew.” One upper-classman who takes the r?le of Zeus directs the plebe messengers of the gods how to brew the libation. Having detailed one plebe to perform the duties of Ganymede, Zeus orders him to get his own G. I. (galvanized iron) water bucket, clean it thoroughly, squeeze the lemons, add the sugar and water, and taste it until pronounced perfect. To give the brew a proper color and add a little pungency, a bottle of grape juice is recklessly poured into the delectable drink. With the strains of the music floating over the camp and dippers full of “brew” constantly at one’s elbow, the upper-classmen reclining at their feast rival the luxury of the Romans of old. Nor are the “messengers” forgotten. They are permitted, as a reward for their services, to drink their fill from the brimming bucket. Of course, there are a few 257 “eats” too; nothing elaborate, but oh! how good! saltines, peanut butter, and jam! Words to conjure with!

Or perhaps, a roving crowd of Yearlings, restless and filled with adventure, go from company street to company street, visiting, playing pranks and jokes, poking their heads into some plebe’s tent, almost scaring him to death by yelling:

“Mister, what’s your name.”

“Mr. Ducrot, sir!”

“Who am I?” asks the Yearling.

“I don’t know, sir!”

“What!!! don’t know who I am? Well, Mr. Ducrot, you’re pretty ignorant, you get that; you ‘bone’ me up!”

On goes the gang from one tent to another, drawn to some parts of the camp by a “brew” fight, or to another part by the tinkling of some mandolins and strumming of some guitars. From the depths of each street strong voices call out to their comrades in other companies: “Oh-h-h-h-h! Scott Fulton-n-n!” More often the night is startled by the frequent call:

“Turn out a plebe!”

Out of the tents bound a dozen plebes to find out the wishes of the Mighty One.

In the camp there are many sharp contrasts. Strangest of all is to see some serious-minded cadet seated in his tent calmly reading, enthralled by the contents of a book, while all around him 258 are disturbing distractions. Neither the fluttering of the moths and lady bugs around his electric light, the attentions of the mosquitoes, nor the laughter and chatter of his comrades, nor the crashing music of the band seem to draw him from his imaginary world. Not even the cry of “Yea! Furlo-o-o-o ...!” so oft repeated by the Yearlings, makes any impression upon him. Whenever a Yearling has a little surplus energy that he must get rid of, he sticks his head out of the tent and yells:

“Yea! Furlo-o-o-o ...!”

From all parts of the camp, voices echo the call, and for a few seconds the air vibrates with the sound of hopeful voices.

After a plebe has been recognized and has become a Yearling, the one engrossing thought of his life is his furlough. This furlough, coming at the end of his second year, is the only vacation accorded the cadet in the four years, and is anticipated by him with the keenest yearnings. For two years he has been living under the severest discipline and restrictions and separated from the loved ones at home. The thought of returning again to the family circle and of picking up all of the old threads of friendship causes a lively feeling of joy to fill his manly young heart. It is no wonder that “Yea! Furlo-o-o-o ...!” finds a sympathetic response in the hearts of all who have been cadets.

On Sunday evenings, usually a dull time in 259 camp, the regular concerts by the Military Academy Band are replaced by a concert given by the cadets themselves. This entertainment is known as the Color Line concert. A canvas is made of the plebe class and all of these who admit any musical talent are ordered to practice. Mandolins, guitars, violins are all brought out and the whole aggregation, plebes and upper-classmen, assemble in front of the hedge. For an hour or more they play and sing for their comrades and friends, who sit around on blankets or camp stools, and wave burning Chinese joss sticks to drive away the tormenting mosquitoes. The simplicity of the entertainment gives to these little Color Line concerts an intimate and charming atmosphere.

As soon as the concert is over the crowd quickly disperses, the girls going to the hotel or wherever they happen to be stopping, and the cadets to their company streets. The quiet of Sunday evening is then for half an hour broken by the shouts of the men as they litter up th............