Often while I was waiting my turn to go on post, I sat fascinated as I watched the scene at the guard tents in the twilight of the summer evenings. From the obscurity of the camp, stalwart figures were constantly coming. Their gray coats and the evening mists merged into one so completely, it seemed as if only animated pairs of white trousers were flitting across the parade, all converging toward Post No. 1. Little by little, as they approached the light of the guard tent, the rays that were stabbing the darkness illumined the bell buttons of the gray coats, and for a brief moment gleaming forms with happy laughing faces filled the picture and then into the darkness of the Plain quickly disappeared. Such reveries, however, are usually interrupted by a sharp voice calling: “Turn out the second relief!” “Hurry up, you plebes,” and away the novitiates scamper to perform their first guard tour. As the relief marches around the graveled paths under the command of a very military corporal, the plebe has, in spite of his feeling of uncertainty, a sensation of pride in being entrusted with the guard of a part of the camp. Each time that the corporal commands “Relief Halt No. 2!” and the rifles hit the ground in unison, a pleasurable thrill pervades his being, a consciousness of a certain importance. Before very much pride can swell his breast, he is brought back to reality by the stern corporal exclaiming, “Wake up, Mr. Dumbguard, and come to port arms!” or “Drag in your chin!” In goes the chin, and the shoulders instinctively draw to the rear. Glory was brief; humiliation reigns anew. Then commences in earnest the lonely two hours of marching up and down, back and forth, at the end of which time the nine pounds of the rifle has tripled at least. The arms ache, and legs feel as if they would bore holes in the body. The early part of the tour is filled with interest. The animation in some company streets in contrast to the silence in others, the occasional tinkling of mandolins, the cries from one tent to another, the laughter over a surreptitious bucket of lemonade, the Y. M. C. A. phonograph, the confusion over the wash lists, scampering cadets noisily returning from hops and concerts--all keep a sentinel from thinking of himself. It is not until the three taps of the drum, when the camp is magically plunged into obscurity and silence, that the plebe begins to feel the monotony of his duty and, while walking mechanically back and forth on his post, to become introspective.