You think of the delight and astonishment it would give your mother and
father, and most of all little Nelly, if you were winning such honors as
now escape you. You measure your capacities by those about you, and
watch their habit of study; you gaze for a half-hour together upon some
successful man who has won his prizes, and wonder by what secret action
he has done it. And when in time you come to be a competitor yourself,
your anxiety is immense.
You spend hours upon hours at your theme. You write and rewrite; and
when it is at length complete and out of your hands, you are harassed by
a thousand doubts. At times, as you recall your hours of toil, you
question if so much has been spent upon any other; you feel almost
certain of success. You repeat to yourself some passages of special
eloquence at night. You fancy the admiration of the professors at
meeting with such a wonderful performance. You have a slight fear that
its superior goodness may awaken the suspicion that some one out of the
college, some superior man, may have written it. But this fear dies
away.
The eventful day is a great one in your calendar you hardly sleep the
night previous.
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