In Haste | AdventAI

International Tract and Missionary Society · OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA · Feb 4, 1886

In Haste.

It was when postage stamps were three cents apiece, and eggs twelve and a half cents a dozen, that Mr. Huggins, the proprietor of the little country store at Elkton, sat at his high desk, one dreary afternoon, with his head studiously bent over his book, making out an account of sales.

"Please, sir," suddenly interrupted a thin, small voice proceeding from the space in front of the desk, "will you give me a stamp for these three eggs, and you needn't mind the change."

Mr. Huggins slowly lifted his eyes from the big book, to look for the small speaker below it.

It was a mite of a girl, not more than six years old, who held a letter in one hand, and with the other tightly grasped her apron, gathered together for the safe keeping of three eggs lying within.

Mr. Huggins's senses had been so absorbed in the difficulties of his long sum in addition, that it was several moments before he could recall them, and bring them down to a level with the little head lifting itself eagerly up to him; but reaching out his hand mechanically, he took the letter, and supposing he would immediately take the eggs also, the little girl incautiously opened her apron, when, alas, with a pip! pip! pip! as though they were kissing each other a hasty good-by, out rolled the eggs, and with a smash! smash! smash! lay on the floor, a medley of gold and silver, and ivory shells!

For one moment the poor little messenger stood silent with dismay, and then, lifting her distressed face to that of Mr. Huggins, she burst into a wail so pitiful that the heart of the store-keeper was touched with compassion.

"Why, what on earth did you open your apron for, little gal?" said he, by way of soothing her.

"To—let—you—get—the—eggs," sobbed the child. "I thought you were going to take them."

"And so I was," he answered; "but you ought not to have let go your grip till I had hold of them. Well, well, they won't hatch now, that's certain," he continued, with a touch of philosophy in his tone; "but there's no more use crying over smashed eggs than over spilt milk. You ought to be glad there were so few of them; and what were you asking me to do with them?"

"To give me a stamp, please, sir. But oh, what will mother do now! Her letter can't go; and she said it was to start at once, and go in haste!"

The sobs grew louder as the little girl seemed to realize more and more the extent of the disaster.

"To go in haste," repeated Mr. Huggins, with a smile of superior knowledge. "Yes; I see, she has written on it 'in haste, in haste.' Well, that might have done some good, perhaps, fifty years ago, when letters were carried about the country on horse-back; I doubt if it will hurry up the steam cars very much. But for mercy's sake, little gal, do stop crying!" he ejaculated suddenly, as the deepening sobs smote his heart anew, and brought him back to the business on hand. "Didn't I tell you there's no use crying over smashed eggs? So, look up now, and tell me what is the great haste about this particular letter?"

"Oh, I don't know 'zactly, sir," answered the child tearfully; "but I know it is something very particular indeed, and it will break mother's heart almost to know it hasn't gone. You see, she had been over to Miss Riley's; and she came back with the tears all running down her cheeks, and she hunted round till she found this paper and a pencil, and wrote the letter with her hand all in a tremble. But after it was all done up, she just remembered that she hadn't a stamp, and I ran as fast as I could to Miss Riley's; but she hadn't one, nor any money either, and mother just sunk down and cried as if her heart would break. And then, sir—wasn't it lucky—I knew a stamp cost three cents, and I just thought of my old hen, Buff, that was laying eggs that I wanted so to hatch, and there were just three in the nest; but I couldn't see mother cry so, and I ran out and brought them in to her, and she was so glad—well, I wish you could have seen her—and she said, 'Thank God for the eggs, Jess, and run as fast as you can; for this letter must go in haste,—in haste, that's just what she said—but oh, the eggs are all broken now, and what will mother do!"

The long story came to an abrupt end with a fresh wail of grief.

"Well, don't take it so to heart, child," said Mr. Huggins, with his gruff kindliness. "There's no great harm done; the letter can't go till to-morrow anyhow, for the mail has been gone these three hours."

"To-morrow!" repeated the little girl, in dismay. "Oh, sir, mother won't sleep a wink to-night if she knows that; she said a day might make it too late, and that if you would read it, you would know it must go in haste."

"But that's all nonsense, child," said Mr. Huggins, beginning to lose patience. "There's no such thing in these days; letters now all go one way and in one time, and that's a deal quicker than they once did. But you run home now, and if you like you needn't tell your mother anything about the waiting, nor the eggs either. I'll put a stamp on for you, and send it as soon as I can."

The little eyes beamed like stars through the falling tears. "Oh, sir, if you would!" she cried; "and when my hen lays three more eggs, I will be sure to bring them to you."

She turned quickly to the door, but pausing there, as if with an unconquerable impulse, she looked back, saying, "And if you please, sir, do make it go fast; for that's what she said—in haste."

"That child has got more heart than head," thought Mr. Huggins to himself, as he silently watched her depart without making further efforts to explain the mail regulations. He knew the little customer quite well as the child of widow Carson, who had come to the neighborhood just after the first of those terrible floods that had sent so many homeless ones back from the banks of the treacherous Ohio.

It was said that her husband had perished in the waves after placing his wife and child in safety. And here she had lived ever since in a little log cabin not far from the store, where with her small patch of corn and potatoes she supported, as best she could, herself and Jess and the little yellow dog. But only a few days previous to this, Mr. Huggins had felt compelled to refuse her any further credit, till the bill, slowly lengthening on his big book, was paid up, and it was doubtless because of this that she had not sent to him at once to ask the advance of a stamp for this all-important letter.

Meditatively he looked at the envelope, with the address scrawled in so tremulous and unpracticed a hand that he doubted much whether it would ever reach its destination, and the words of Jessie returned to his mind. "She said if you would read it, you would know it must go in haste."

It seemed a sufficient permission to the kind thought in his heart, and opening the awkwardly sealed covering, Mr. Huggins with difficulty made out the words written evidently by a hand tremulous with emotion:—

"I have just heard you were seen in Rockport yesterday, looking for Jess and me. It seems too good and wonderful to be true; but I write at once to say that we are here, and God grant my letter may reach you in time. I will write 'in haste' on it, and I will pray day and night that He will make it go quickly; for Jess and I are in such need that unless you come to us soon, I do not know what will become of us. We have mourned for you so long as dead, that I can scarcely write now for the beating of my heart at the thought of seeing you again."

Though Mr. Huggins was often called a rough, cold man, yet there was certainly a strange moisture in his eyes as he closed the letter. In a moment he had taken in the whole situation. Jessie's father, then, was not dead, as supposed, but had been separated from his wife and child on that terrible night, and had lost sight of them. The sorrowing woman had just heard that he had been seen seeking those who mourned him; but it was evident that he was not long to remain at Rockport. What if this chance of reunion should be lost? These words, "I will pray day and night that God will make my letter go quickly," and the wan, anxious face of little Jess, rose together before Mr. Huggins's mind, and with a sudden movement he rose abruptly, saying half aloud: "And my name is not Huggins if it don't go quick, quicker even than she thought!"

Striding from the store and locking the door behind him, Mr. Huggins was seen a little later riding rapidly to the nearest railroad station.

"I want this telegram sent at once," he said, handing a slip of paper to the clerk, on which was written:—

"To John Carson, Boatman's Tavern, Rockport: "Jess and I are here; come at once, and inquire at the Elkton store for the house. "MARY CARSON."

Rockport was only a hundred miles away, and Mr. Huggins cast many an expectant glance next day along the road leading from the station. And sure enough, about half an hour after the three o'clock train had whistled, a sun-burnt stranger, with eager, anxious face, came down that road, and hurriedly entered the store.

"Can any one tell me where Mary Carson lives?" he asked nervously of Mr. Huggins.

"Yes, my friend, and I will lead you a part of the way myself," answered the proprietor, promptly, and without losing a moment the two were soon in sight of the little log cabin.

"That's the house," said Mr. Huggins, "you can easily find the rest of the way alone," and with these words he turned, leaving the stranger to hasten onward.

He heard the little dog give its quick, yelping bark, and a backward glance showed him Jessie already at the gate, and the mother standing with clasped hands motionless in the door-way; but this was all, and you and Mr. Huggins both will have to imagine the rest of the story.—New York Observer.