Hovering over both the grounds and the buildings is the influence of the flag. As a cadet sees it floating from its tall white staff, somehow it has come to have a different meaning from the days when he was a care-free civilian. It seems to him to possess a personality of which he never before was aware. He feels for it a real reverence, because he is conscious of being in the presence of something big, as if beholding the whole power of a nation. He sees in it the emblem of the country’s sovereignty and the symbol to which he has pledged his life’s service. Mingled with his feeling of reverence is his personal affection. Day after day he has watched it silhouetted against the sky and has felt the thrill of patriotism, when it was being lowered at retreat to the accompaniment of _The Star Spangled Banner_. It is not to the beauty of Nature and to the flag alone that the cadet must turn for his spiritual refreshment. The Chaplain, a man with a fine grip upon the Corps, gathers together in classes those cadets who desire to come, and explains to them the word of God. His Bible classes today are a continuation of the famous classes that were held at West Point for so many years by Miss Anna Warner. During the summer encampment, she taught her boys in the old chapel after the morning services, where for one hour the cadets received from her sainted lips an interpretation of the Scriptures, and were elevated by contact with her noble character. I can see her before me now, her quaint silk dress, her small delicate body, her ethereal face framed in the neatest and whitest of curls that peeped from out of her charming poke bonnet. Her whole presence radiated goodness and spirituality. Prior to the dismissal of the class she would regularly present to each cadet a fragrant little bouquet of flowers that she had that morning gathered from her modest garden, and arranged into the daintiest of nosegays. These few flowers were simple, like the donor, but they brought into the life of the recipient a spiritual perfume that awakened his memories and took him back home to rose-scented gardens and neat graveled paths where another sainted woman was praying for the welfare of his soul. So he took the little nosegay back to camp with him and put it carefully in his tumblerful of water alongside of his tent, as a reminder of what he should be, and as a check on ignoble impulses. Here and there in his own company streets, he would see his comrades’ bouquets, little dashes of color, the red of the petunia, the blue of the cornflower, the yellow of the marigold, and as they caught his eye they seemed to be a part of Miss Warner still exerting her inspiring influence.