A West Point Treasure

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.