A Framed Postage Stamp

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Apr 22, 1915

A Framed Postage Stamp

OVER my desk is a square of heavy paper with corners clipped in it to make a frame for a two-cent stamp. It is the only stamp on the place that never gets used, no matter how great my hurry, nor how urgent the cause. “Why do you keep it? you ask, and ask it curiously if you know me, for I am a regular devourer of stamps. It is a family joke that mother spends all her living on riotous postage stamps, and yet, this one stays. It came to me in a letter from my old minister—the minister of my childhood and girlhood days.

It was a long letter, and it nearly broke my heart to read it. All the homesick longing for a bit of news from those who had been in his care for many years, crept into the feeble writing. There were pages of questions about people who had been dead for so long a time that I had almost forgotten they had ever lived. We forget so soon in this rushing age! Only two of the people he asked about are living. One of them is too feeble to write to him; the other is still a strong man and a busy one, holding an office of importance in his home town. When I told him that our dear Brother W— had asked about him, his eyes filled with tears. Even busy people often have kind hearts, but are obliged to stifle the good impulses that would take time to carry out. “I’ll write to him

right away,” this busy man said, with a queer huskiness in his voice. He took the address and hurried on. Perhaps he wrote. At least, he meant to, for that one moment. I’m not worthy to criticize, if he didn’t, for I fail so miserably in doing the good things I mean to do. But I did answer this letter.

I forgot to say that, at the close of Brother W—’s letter, was this little appeal: “If you ever find the time, I shall be so glad to hear from you.” And there, below the words, clinging bravely by one corner, was the stamp. It was the stamp that broke me all up, if I may use slang. I cried when it lay in my hand, the pathetic little piece of pink paper. On it was a full front view of the father of his country. His calm eyes seemed to look up at me reproachfully, and I said: “Don’t look at me that way—I’ll answer the letter, but I won’t send you to carry it back. I’ll keep you as a reminder of neglected duties to old friends.”— Christian Standard.