Nor is target practice, that important branch of Infantry instruction, neglected. In summer when the cadets are in camp, the complete course of firing as prescribed for Infantry and Cavalry troops is given the First Class. It is held down on the flats near the river in the shelter of Cro’s Nest where a fair range parallels the Hudson. Every clear morning at seven the detachments march down to the range. At this hour the air is cool and crisp and so crystalline that every feature of the landscape stands out sharply defined. West Point is incomparably beautiful at this season and time of the day. But as the sun mounts higher in the Heavens the coolness is replaced by a steadily increasing heat. From the arrival at the range until noon, Washington Valley echoes with the crack! crack! of the Springfields. Little groups of cadets are stretched out in the blazing sun trying to find the bull’s eye and hoping to pile up a big enough score to win the coveted medal of Expert Rifleman or Sharpshooter. Meanwhile another portion of the men is down behind the butts, taking its turn in shifting the targets. All morning long they monotonously pull the frames up and down, pasting on the target, now a white paster, now a black one, or mechanically waving the red flag back and forth. Intermittently the telephone rings: “Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling.” “Re-mark No. 8!” sings out the operator. Careful search is made on No. 8 for the third time and up goes the red flag, the sight of which fills the hopeful cadet back at the firing point with a feeling of disappointment and disgust. And so the morning passes, the men firing so interested that they are oblivious of its flight, and the men in the butts thinking less of pasters and red flags than of the cool shower that waits them in camp, and blessed dinner. If one wishes, however, to see the finished results of the discipline and cohesion produced by Infantry training he must attend either a review and inspection by the Corps, or a parade.