Maintaining A Sharp Eye

The Most Unforgettable Character I've Met

I remember vividly that first English class in the last term of high school. We boys (there were no girls in the school) were waiting expectantly for the new teacher to appear. Before long, through the door came in a tall, unimpressive-looking man of about 40. He said shyly, "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

His voice had a surprising tone of respect, almost as if he were addressing the Supreme Court instead of a group of youngsters. He wrote his name on the blackboard — Wilmer T. Stone — then sat on the front of his desk, drew one long leg up and grasped his bony knee.

 "Gentlemen," he began, "we are here this semester — your last — to continue your study of English. I know we shall enjoy learning with — and from — one another. We are going to learn something about journalism and how to get out your weekly school paper. Most important, we are going to try to really get interested in reading and writing. Those who do, I venture to say, will lead far richer, fuller lives than they would otherwise."

He went on like that, voicing a welcome message of friendliness and understanding. An unexpected feeling of excitement stirred in me.

During the term that followed, his enthusiasm spread through us like a contagion. "Don't be afraid to disagree with me," he used to say. "It shows you are thinking for yourselves, and that's what you are here for." Warming to such confidence, we felt we had to justify it by giving more than our best. And we did.

Mr. Stone gave us the greatest gift a teacher can bestow — an awakening of a passion for learning. He had a way of dangling before us part of a story, a literary character or idea, until we were curious and eager for more; then he would cut himself short and say, "But I suppose you have read so-and-so." When we shook our heads, he would write the title of a book on the blackboard, then turn to us. "There are some books like this one I almost wish I had never read. Many doors to pleasure are closed to me now, but they are all open for you!"

The end of the term came much too soon. The morning before graduation day the class suddenly and spontaneously decided to give  Mr. Stone a literary send-off that afternoon — a goodbye party with poems and songs for the occasion.

That afternoon when Mr. Stone walked slowly into Room 318 we made him take a seat in the first row. One of the boys, sitting in the teacher's chair, started off with a poem called "Farewell"; the rest of us were grouped around him. Mr. Stone sat tight-lipped, until toward the end when he slowly turned to the right and then to the left, looking at each of us in turn as if he wanted to register the picture on his mind.

When we got to the last chorus of the parody, we saw tears rolling down Mr. Stone's high cheekbones. He got up and pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose and wiped his face. "Boys," he began, and no one even noticed that he wasn't calling us "men" any more, "we're not very good, we Americans, at expressing sentiment. But I want to tell you that you have given me something I shall never forget."