squads and so would march off the field. And you would sigh and think, "Isn't it fine?" Well, you would never get the true inwardness unless I told you. It went this way. Down out of the street we marched into the field, I a small part of a big machine, very much afraid that I might make some blunder. The men's feet thudded in unison on the sod, and to each tramp came the rustling echo of our stiff breeches, always an accompaniment to us as we march in good order. We waited, we marched forward to the music, we heard the captain give his first order--to the guides, I realized, not to us--but then came "Squads left--march!" I swung to the left, the men in front of me marched to the right. Just grazing the last of them, as these rear-rank men filed to their places, I stepped into my position in the front rank just as the corporal finished counting "Six" below his breath, and at "Seven!" the whole line, which had been waiting for us Number Ones to complete it, strode straight forward. "Company--!" and we took this last moment, each out of the corner of his eye searching to the right, to get in good line. "Halt!" Low voices counted "One, two!" and the halt was completed. "One, two, three!" and the pieces were at the order. The captain commanded "Right--dress!" and we edged forward, our heads turned to the right, to align the rank. Such eager work we make of it--"Forward on the right--back in the next squad--Frothingham, you're too far forward--tell Neary to get back!" Such commands, all under the breath, run up and down the line. At last we are in place, the Captain says "Front!" and takes his place before the middle of the line, facing away from us. But he says in reminder, "The next command for _you_ will be Parade Rest." Alas, Lieutenant Pendleton's high tenor (he is the adjutant for the day) calls "Guides--posts!" We knew--we ought to have known--the order; we had been warned to ignore it. But some of the men come to parade rest. The captain hears, though he cannot turn to look. "Stupid!" he hisses. "As you were!" Then comes the command for us all, "Parade--rest!" It was very comfortable, waiting while the band marched up and down. We were not much stirred by this; we knew by heart all the few tunes; we thought the drum-major very tiresome with his bent head and his elbow jogging for the time. But there was, above the ugly mess-shacks straight in front, the finest sunset to look at: angry clouds to the right, to the left wide reaches of pure blue, with tiny white clouds stretching in rank to infinite distance, and in the middle the yellow glow of fire behind broken masses, through which shot, not beams of light, but rather, it seemed, wide bars of shadow.