The Parson was just the same old parson he was the day he first struck West Point. Frequent hazings had not robbed him of his quiet and classic dignity; and still more frequent battles with “the enemy” had not made him a whit less learned and studious. He was from Boston, was Parson Stanard, and he was proud of it. Also, he was a geologist of erudition most astoundingly deep. He had a bag of most wonderful fossils hidden away in his tent, fossils with names as long as the Parson’s venerable and bony legs in their pale green socks.

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