“What are you writing, Harry?” his mother asked curiously, as the boy wrote and erased, stripping off one sheet of paper after another from the pad, only to tear it to bits.
“I’m writing—a—well—it’s a kind of composition.” Harry had decided not to tell his mother of the prize competition until it was over. If he won, it would be a glorious surprise. If he did not, then she would never know, and thus escape being disappointed because the prize had not been awarded her son.
Harry went to bed that night in a rather disheartened frame of mind. He had not written a single line which he considered worthy. A constant reader of good books, he had decided ideas as to literary style, and was fairly competent to judge his own work. The next night he attacked his task with renewed resolve, but the words of inspiration would not come.
“I don’t believe I can write anything good enough for an every-day composition, let alone a welcome address,” he confided to Teddy after four evenings of hard, but futile effort at composing an address worth while.
“Mine’s written and handed in,” grinned Teddy. “I wrote seven lines, so I’ll sure get the prize. I couldn’t think of anything more. It’s seven lines too much, anyhow.”
Harry’s sober face relaxed into a faint smile. He had a very fair idea of Teddy’s welcome address.
“I’m going to keep on trying,” he declared, his pleasant face setting in lines of dogged determination.
“To-day’s Friday. You’ve only Saturday and Sunday,” was Teddy’s well-meant reminder.
That evening Harry went to his task divided between the desire to write a fitting address and the despair of ever doing so. He read over the one he had written the night before, then, with an impatient exclamation tore it to bits. It was dull. It lacked force and sincerity. He longed to put into it his gratitude toward the man who had given so many boys not only work but the splendid chance to gain an education as well. If only he could set down that gratitude in smooth, elegant language!