In the dark hours of last night and early morning eight hundred soldiers of misfortune sprinkled their blouses with the familiar and odorous Carbona, patched up the rips in their breeches, turned their shirts inside out so the dirt wouldn't show, polished their shoes with liquid paint, and washed their faces for the great inspection. In time of peace, as Shakespere so ably said it, prepare for war. The preparation has been made.

Already the well-known Krags have been brightened till they shine like the medals on von Hindenburg's chest. Cuban dirt has been dug from their cracks that has rested there since they fought with the boys in '98, and the rust scoured off the bayonets which has remained from the time of Aquinaldo's men. Scabbard and belt and rifle and uniform have been cleaned for the punctilious eyes of the reviewing officer.

Nothing now remains but the minor task of standing at parade rest when there is no rest, while the band marches twice the length of the field playing "We Won't Get Home Until Morning" and "Dixie." And standing at attention while the officer gazes at each man in the regiment to see if his eyes are brown when they ought to be blue, and if his feet are mates, and if he is a natural blonde.

Inspection is the next thing to heaven if cleanliness is next to Godliness. The glorified soldiers might be pardoned a desire to flap their sprouting wings and fly away, bright gun and all, in the extasy of their scrubbed perfection. But instead they must wait in agony at attention while one man after another is damned with faint praise, or blasted with none.

The hope of every private, lofty or low, is that the inspecting officer may drop a gun and some bold captain place on him the duty of guarding stacks.