St. Paul daily globe., 1893-03-04
STORY OF A TELEGRAM.

r. =. NJ. Andrews, in the Journal.
Ii was dull day in our office. One OF
those mornings when fellow can
tence or recall an available item OF
news. The rain was falling in torrents
outside, and the March wind blew into
ones face with well nigh resistless
force. Not a thing had been going on
the night before, and the prospects for
a newsy afternoon paper seemed slim
indeed. l was trying to make an article
out of school committee report, and
Van, as we called him, was deep in a
story of the city's sanitary condition and
how its inetficiency breeded disease and
death, for scarlet fever had broken out
in many families in one part of the city,
and the board of health had not even
tried to locate the primary cause Of its
appearance and spread. We both fin
lshed at the same time. and took his
copy with mine to the city editors office
i'm the next room. When l came back
Van was looking Sweetly at an envelope
on his desk and saying TO himself:
Next summer, pet; next summer we'll
be" ahd then he stopped short and
laughed when he saw l had caught
him.
Harry Van Syckle was not sent-
mental fop by any means, nor love-
sick, pOetry-quOting youth of the dear
boy-dOn' t-cherknow style" but he was
engaged to one of the sWellest girls in
B.. Ida Catherine Hammond was
the young lady, and the tall figure and
stately bearing showed right to have a
name as high-sounding and dignified as
was hers. Delicate, however, III health,
she had been travelling i'll the South
during the winter, and would not re-
turn until the first of May. Her letters
were encouraging. but yet there was a
quiet undertOne to every sentence that
bothered Van beyond measure (yOu see
he confded all this to me from time to
time).
The following summer they were to
be married and move to Denver, where
he hoped the dry western air would
build up her rather weak lungs and
make her bright as she had been when
he first met her three years before. L
returned to my desk, and, putting away
my papers, was preparing to venture
out in desperate search tor something
new, when Mr.. Rolph, the city editor,
came in. He held 4 telegram in his
hand, and said in quick, sharp way,
(Which of you knows Mr.. Hammond, the
Monroe street broker, or any of his
family?'
Iwinked knowingly at Van and he
said:
II do, sir. very we'll"
"Well, take this, and make a little
story, the best you can, for the family
is we'll KNOWN" and, handing Van the
telegram, Mr.. Rolph left the room.
Never in ali my life will forget the
expression of Harry'S face when he
glanced at the message. 1t grew red
and then resolved into a fixed, ashen
stare that frightened me as l never have
been frightened before. tried TO ask
him what was wrong, for he had risen,
with that same ghastly look, but some
how my tongue was fast and words
would not come. He passed quickly
out, handing Inc the bit or paper, went
to the bank and drew out his savings
and then disappeared.
The editOr-in-chief tried to find him.
l did my best, his parents were we'll
nigh wild with grief, but Harry Van
Syckle has never been seen III b
since that stormy night in March, 1852.
and God only knows where he went and
what became of him. | wrote the story
the hardest duty | ever had-and my
text was the brief dispatch sent from
a little town in Florida to her brother il
B. 1t read:
Ida c. Hammond died suddenly this
morning at the Wentworth house. Tel
egraph instructions.
DIR. LOREN MILLER"
Gainesville. Ga"
Poor Harry L had almost forgotten
him until few days ago, when, going
through the cemetery on the outskirts
Of the city, read on a pure white
marble slab these words, that tell the
story in one sentence: Ida c. Ham
mOnd, born Dec. -, 1864, died March 9,
1882. Her sun set while it was yet
day."