Ward Hill, the Senior

by Everett T. Tomlinson

"Dear old Speck," thought Ward, as a vision of the school and his experiences there in the preceding year rose before his mind. And yet it was evident that the recollection was not entirely pleasing. To Ward it had largely been a year of failure. He thought of his own high hopes when he had entered, and then the picture of his gradual but sure descent could not be forgotten. How he had neglected his work and been drawn into the company of those who were no credit to the school, to their parents, or to themselves! How he had failed at the very time when he had been most eager to show what he could do! He had won no prize, had failed in the final examinations, and by his one attempt to do right, had incurred the anger of "the fellows," and at last had departed from Weston feeling very like an outcast. The bright spots had been the friendship of Jack Hobart, and the strong confidence which Mr. Crane, the teacher of Latin, had expressed in his ability to recover himself and in a measure make good the time he had lost. All summer long that final interview with Mr. Crane had been his inspiration, and Ward had worked faithfully in his endeavor to make up the work he had lost.

There had been times when he had felt that he must give it all up. The days when his friend Henry Boyd and some of his companions had come for him to go with them sailing down the bay and out along the shore of the ocean, which he could see every morning from the window of his room in his father's house, had been the most difficult for him, but somehow he had roused himself and kept steadily at his task. Then too, there had been days when the sun had been almost like a ball of fire, and the very air he breathed had seemed almost like the hot breath of a furnace, and it had required the exertion of all his will power to continue at his studies. And will power had never been Ward Hill's strongest point.

His father had not spoken to him all summer long concerning his work, for he had gently informed Ward, at the close of his disastrous year at Weston, that the future lay entirely with him. He was willing to do his utmost for the boy whom he loved, but he never should insist now upon his return. If he made up his work and desired to go on, he would sacrifice and do his utmost for him, but as for sending him when he himself had no desire to go--that was an impossibility.

Ward had felt the justice of his father's words, but his heart had been none the less hungry for the words of encouragement which were not spoken. He little realized how difficult it had been for his father to remain silent, and with what tender solicitude he had watched the course of his only boy; but Mr. Hill had been governed largely by the advice of his friend, Dr. Gray, the head of the Weston school, who had keenly realized the crisis which had come in the lad's life. The issues of life have always to be settled by us alone, and all the advice and sympathy of the very best of our friends can never take the place of that decision and exertion which must come, if ever success is to be won, from the individual soul itself.

And Ward had done his best. All summer long he had kept steadily at his task. An occasional letter from Mr. Crane had given him some encouragement at the time when he had needed it most; for there was no man whom he respected more and none, with the single exception of his own father--whom Ward, in spite of his failures, dearly loved--for whom he cherished a stronger feeling of affection. After all, perhaps Ward Hill was learning what we all come to know sooner or later, that there is no such thing as a genuine love which does not have a feeling of deep respect as its basis.

And yet what a summer it had been! It had brought almost no pleasure to him. The other boys had been free to come and go as they chose, but for Ward there was only the steady grind of work--work which was all unnecessary he knew, for if he had only been reasonably faithful to his duties in the school, he too might have had the summer to spend as every vacation ought to be spent. For him there had been no sailing parties, no fishing trips, nothing but the hard and steady work. Even his friend Henry Boyd had soon let him alone when he saw that Ward was not inclined to join with his companions in the sports of the summer days.

Ward had been almost inclined to blame his friend for his neglect, although he well knew he was himself the only one at fault; but then that is a tendency which seems to be in the hearts of us all. It is almost always some one else who is at fault, we fondly believe, for our own shortcomings and failures. Few of us have the moral courage to look squarely at ourselves and to call everything by its proper name. However, Ward had not cherished any ill will, and perhaps smarting under the sense of his failures, had preferred to be let alone.

He glanced up at the pastures that stretched away beyond the station at Rockford. How the grass had withered and curled beneath the influence of the hot August sun! A fitting picture, he thought, of his own summer vacation. All his plans had been thwarted and every hope blasted by the failure he had made at Weston. The fields all parched and sere seemed something like his own life. And Ward felt quite like a youthful misanthrope, only it is likely he had never heard that word used, or never had thought of its meaning.

But July had gone and the most of August had now passed. The time when he must return to Weston, if he returned at all, would soon be at hand. And Ward Hill had not yet fully decided that question. There were times when he thought he certainly would go back and redeem himself, but when he thought of the unpopularity which had overtaken him near the close of the year, and of what he must face if he should return, his heart almost failed him, and it seemed to the troubled boy as if he never could enter Weston again. The only source of comfort he had was the knowledge that the work at last had been completed and he felt reasonably sure of his ability to pass the examination in which he had failed, and now could go on with his class in case he decided to enter the school again.

His thoughts were interrupted by the distant whistle of the engine, and the far-away cloud of smoke and dust proclaimed the approach of the train.