The practical military instruction of the cadets, although carried on throughout the year, varies in intensity at different periods. In the depth of winter it is impossible to drill out of doors. The Infantry instruction is then suspended, except for the daily class and meal formations. When, however, March 15th rolls around, the Ides of March remember, and the snow leaves the ground, the Corps begins its annual training. Immediately after the dismissal of the sections from recitations at four o’clock, the battalions form in front of barracks for the afternoon drill. Despite the raw March winds that blow across the Plain, chilling one to the marrow, the battalion designated for Infantry drill sets about overcoming the inequalities of marching, the lack of precision in the execution of the manual, raggedness of the movements that have been produced by the long inactivity of the winter. It is at this period that the most scrupulous attention must be paid to the manner of executing the various movements. Every little dereliction is criticized, every mistake is corrected, and every movement repeated until it can be faultlessly performed. First the companies are drilled alone and then later assembled for a short battalion drill before going back to barracks. Up and down the Plain the companies march, now in column, now in line. The right guides of each company seem to be carrying the burden of the drill as with tense faces they fixedly regard the two points upon which they are directing the march of the company. Meanwhile they are measuring their step by a silent count of “one-two-three-four.” The officers and file closers are attentive and alert, giving a word of caution here and one of reprimand there, as the line crowds in on the left, or, like an accordion, opens out on the right. The plebes in the rear rank are striving to the utmost to keep in step and on the line, and at the same time carry their rifles straight and drag in their chins. The detail and care with which every command must be executed begins to produce a feeling of monotony, and stolen glances seek the clock in the tower. Fifteen more minutes! The hour seems interminable and the wind more and more disagreeable. Finally the hands of the clock roll around to five and the musician appears in the sally-port and sounds the recall.