The seniors, one and all, were busy with their plans for commencement; and although they were clinging fondly to all the old associations; yet in spite of it all, they were eager for the coming of the great day to which, for four long years, they had been steadily pointing. The juniors, too, caught something of their spirit, for the hour which transformed the senior boys into men, would in turn advance themselves into the coveted position of seniors, to be admired and looked up to by the whole school; so that only the lower classes were free from the excitement which reigned at Flemming, as the June days slowly passed away.
At last the time had come, and Hilton was filled to overflowing with the guests, who had assembled to watch the young soldiers march past their first milestone. The quiet village street was swarming with gray coats, and the elaborate gowns of stately mothers, and pretty sisters and cousins; while portly fathers gathered on the piazza of the little hotel, to exchange confidences in regard to “my boy,” with an ill-concealed pride.
Commencement week at Flemming always began with the anniversary sermon in the village church which, once a year, was beautified with masses of the pink laurel that softened the bare, barren walls of the dreary little place. The following day was given up to the social pleasures of the ivy-planting, and the evening hop at the doctor’s, together with the dress-parade which came in the late afternoon.
On Sunday evening, the boys had gathered in the Arnolds’ room, for a few minutes before “lights out.” They had been speaking of the young clergyman who had made the annual address, a simple, earnest appeal for a manly life, which had roused the boys to quick enthusiasm.
“I’d like to know that man,” Harry was saying; “he strikes me as being a friend worth having.”
“Yes,” answered Max pensively, and without a thought of joking; “he must be a pretty good man, for such a young one; for he made even me feel sort of good.”
There was a moment of silence; then Harry said restlessly,—
“I do wish to-morrow would be over, for I’ve been dreading this class-day circus for more than six weeks.”
“I’ve seen his old poem, though,” observed Leon; “and it really isn’t so bad, considering Hal wrote it.”
“Thank you, my patronizing infant!” returned Harry, with a sweeping bow. “You’d better go to bed, on the strength of that. Let’s hope ’twill be pleasant to-morrow morning, for I don’t care to stand out in the rain and spout my production.”