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The Most Unforgettable Character I’ve Met
He was a great believer in wide reading outside class. "You know, " he said once, "if I had to put all my advice into a single word, it would be: browse . In any library you will find awaiting you the best that has been thought and felt and said in all the ages. "Taste it, sample it. Peek into many books, read a bit here and there, range widely. Then take home and read the books that speak to you, that are suited to your interests.
"How would you like to live in another century, or another country?" he went on. "Why not for a while Live in
France at the time of the French Revolution?" He paused and wrote on the blackboard: A Tale of Two Cities --- Dickens.
"Or how would you like to take part in 14th-century battles?" He wrote: The White Company --- Doyle. "Or live for a spell
in the Roman Empire?" Ben-Hur --- Wallace. He put the chalk down. "A man who reads lives many lives. A man who doesn't,
walks this earth with a blindfold"
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 good-bye party with poems and songs concocted for the occasion.
Bernie Stamm started a poem called "Farewell. " We cudgeled our brains and each put in a line here and there. Then Herb Galen suggested a parody, and we went to work on Gilbert and Sullivan's "A Policeman 's Lot Is Not a Happy One , " changing it to "Poor Wilmer's Lot Is Not a Happy One . " After we finished the verses Larry Hinds sang it in his premature baritone , and we howled in glee.
That afternoon when Mr. Stone walked slowly into Room 318 we made him take a seat in the first row.
Do you remember those old-fashioned school desks that you had to inch into from the side, with a small seat and a slightly sloping top? Mr. Stone, a tall, big-boned man, sat with his gawky legs spread out into the aisles and waited to see what would happen .
One of the boys, sitting in the teacher's chair, started off with a speech; 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 didn't brush them off but just blinked hard once or twice. We sang louder so that nobody would seem to be noticing. As we came to the end, every throat had a lump in it that made singing difficult.
Mr. Stone 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 you have given me something I shall never forget. "
As we waited, hushed, he spoke again in the gentle musing voice of the natural-born teacher.
"That is one of the secrets of life --- giving; and maybe it is a fitting thought to leave you with.
We are truly happy only when we give. The great writers we have been studying were great because they gave
of themselves fully and honestly. We are big or small according to the size of our helping hand. "
He stopped and shook hands with each of us. His parting words were, "Sometimes I think teaching is a heartbreaking
way of making a living. " Then as he glanced down the line and saw the boys looking at him reverently, he added with
a wistful smile, "But I wouldn't give it up for all the world. "
Part of Wilmer Stone, I know, stays in the hearts of all of us who once faced him across the desks of Room 318.
From Reader's Digest , October, 1949.
Approximately l , 330 words.
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