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.