Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1878-11-22

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that episode of his married life was as
closed page to him, to which he new
er or rarely turned. This was all his
story, and he told il me with eyes bright
with fever and lips that trembled with
weakness as he spoke.
"Do you remember" he asked, "that
baby that came to us that night in
campP Well, my little one would have
been Just as old, and it was wonderful
how like that child was to Louise. 1t
was for my baby's sake that 1 kissed
her; not for her likeness to the baby's
mother. And yet, poor Louise"
! He turned uneasily on his side, and
his face flushed even deeper red. He
clasped my hand tightly and then his
mind began TO wander. BY next morn
ing he was dead.
The war did not last much longer,
and at its close l went to New York.
This is not my own story, so l shall not
tell you how il came to pass that l
found myself by the will of relative
left my own master, with abundant
means and not claim upon me in the
world. But one day was called over
to Baltimore on some business, and
there, in one of the most public streets,
l saw a sight which attracted my atten-
ton strangely.
We Northern men scarcely realized
| during the war how much sympathy
for the South was felt in Baltimore
But the Southerners knew it, and,
therefore, to a Baltimorean it appeared
only matter of course that a Con-
federate soldier in his gray uniform
should be standing at the corner of a
street grinding away at an old hand
organ. l say standing, although this
poor fellow had no legs to stand upon
only two poor deformed stumps on
which his body rested. was attracted
by the sight, but should probably have
passed on with no more than a stare of
curiosity, had not a child beside the
soldier began to sing. l don't know
that l should have recognized the
"Battery's Pride" either, for the elf
locks were all braided neatly around
her head and she was taller and less
chubby than when l had seen her in
our camp two years ago, but the words
of the song struck upon my ear as
strangely familiar, and my memory in
stantlv sprang to the time and place
where had heard them before. Re-
membering, too, what poor Ransom had
said, l stopped and spoke to her.
She looked up pleased when l put a
little gold piece in her palm and then l
asked her if she remembered me?
"She never forgets anything" the
old soldier said, pale smile spreading
over his sickly features as he looked at
her.
But upon this occasion it appeared
that Nina had forgotten. She shook
her head and glanced up shyly into my
face, but declared that she had never
seen me before.
But when | recalled her childish feat
of walking into an enemy's camp alone
at night her face lit up directly.
"And were you there?" she asked.
81 do not remember anybody. o yes,
l do" she added thoughtfully, " l re-
member the sergeant. He took me in
his arms and kissed mer'
1 think some of my readers must
know the feeling that one has for an
old comrade at arms that one has
fought beside and suffered with, and
loved. l doubt if there is any other
feeling in the world quite like it. That
this little thing should have remem-
bered Ransom alone, out of a score of
men who had been kind to her, touched
me deeply. had little to interest me
in the world, and was nearly forty.
/ determined to find out something of
the child's history, and perhaps do some
thing for her for Ramson's sake. And
yet did not know then the claim she
had upon him.
| questioned the soldier closely and
found out where he lived. That even
ing l went to see him, and, remember
ing that past episode, took with me a
generous supply of the Lone Jack for
which Nina had pleaded so eloquently
two years ago. 1t was only garret
where the two lived, and yet the child
had managed to give it a certain home
like air, tor her pretty ways and songs
brought many penny to their common
purse, and it was plain TO see they were
not in absolute want. And some kind
ladies, too, in the house below, had
helped them, the man said, for near
friends of their own had fallen in "The
Lost Cause"
But the man was very uneasy about
Nina. He had taken her as sacred
trust, he said, from his dead Captain,
that Capt. Ned of whom Nina had told
us so much. Capt. Ned (his surname
was Anderson) had rescued the child
from house that the Federals had
fired, and although he had advertised
for the parents he had never found
them. The command had been ordered
to distant part of the country, and in
time Capt. Anderson had become so at
| fn oh hn -
bear to give her up. But he had al
ways said that he was only keeping
her till he could find her parents; the
mother, he said, had been an old sweet
heart of his, Mrs. Ransom
Ramsonm l cried; " are you sureP'
90, yes" answered the soldier.
"Capt. Anderson knew the old planta-
tion well, and so did /, and pretty Miss
Louise and her father, Col. Mallory.
We all came from the same parts. And
when Capt. Anderson died he gave me
these papers and charged me if ever
came across any of the Mallory's that
should give up the child"
| looked at the little one, who was
kneeling beside the pale soldier, with
her small hands clasped over the gray
sleeve of the Southern uniform.
my child" l said, gently, "you
did right to remember the sergeant, for
he was your own father"
| am getting on in years now, and my
hair and mustache are quite streaked
with gray. Nina Ransom is tall
maiden of eighteen, as lovely and mod.
est a creature as anyone may wish to
see. 1t is little that | have done foI
her in comparison with the pleasure il
has been to me to educate poor Ram.
sons child, for although she has found
her grandfather, he, poor old man, has
been nearly ruined by the war and car
only offer her the shelter of modest
home.
Col Mallory, however, has been able
TO supply the only missing link of mys.