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 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 rôle 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 “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!”