Republican news item. [volume] (Laport, Pa.) 1896-19??, 1898-10-06

words in the dearly remembered hand
writing. She had written them years
before she died, for the ink was faded
and the paper yellowed with age.
''This," the paper said, ''is laid aside
for my granddaughter, Dorothea At
kenson, to be given to her after my
death. The contents of this box be-
longed to her cousin, Dorothea Aiken
son, for whom she was named"
When opened the carefully tied
package I found blue soldier cap
that had seen much hard service. It
was faded, frayed and stained and had
tarnished gold letters on the front.
Inside of this was small leather case,
lined with blue velvet and containing
silver cup. Engraved on one side of
the cup was the American flag and on
the other this inscription:
To Captain Dorry.
From her faithful, loving soldiers.
Aunt Mary, my grandmother's only
child who had not married, still-lived
on the old homestead. She had sent
me the package, with letter telling
of grandmother death, but with no
word of explanation in regard to the
box.
I was at boarding school when the
package reached me, hundreds of
miles from my own people. I wrote
to Aunt Mary at once asking many
questions; but she had gone abroad.
The letter followed her over Europe,
never catching her, and at last found
its way back, covered with postmarks,
to the old farm
Iappealed to my mother, the only
other person likely to know anything
about it, but her answer was very un-
satisfactory.
"The cup" she wrote, belonged to
your cousin Dorothea, the daughter
of your fathers only brother, William
Atkenson. His wife died when Doro-
thea was born, and he, poor fellow, was
killed in the war. The soldier cap be-
longed to him aud is connected with
the cup in story which must leave
your Aunt Mary to tell you. 1 never
saw the child; your father was a mere
lad when the events happened.
Often l lifted the cup from its box
and read the queer inscription and
wondered what it meant Many times
I turned that faded cap around on my
finger and tried to guess the story
that connected them. Father had
died when l was little girl, but 1
could remember how he would say to
me, "My precious other little Dorry."
When Aunt Mary returned from
abroad she wrote at once, telling me
of my much travelled letter and invit-
ing me to spend few weeks with her
at the old homestead.
II Will tell you the story when you
come, dear, she wrote, ''and you might
bring the things with you. 1 should
like to see them again
Three days later I was sitting op-
posite aunty at the tea table in the
familiar dining room.
'You want the story right away, to-
night?" she laughed. ''Well, I don't
wonder. A year is long time to
wait for story. You shall have it as
soon as we finish tea"
''My poor little grill" said aunty.
when brought the things and laid
them in her lap. 81 must show you
her picture, Dorry.'
Such solemn. pretty little round
face! The serious baby mouth closed
firmly; the gray eyes looked straight
into yours from under the baby brows;
the thick, dark hair was cut short.
''She looked more like her Uncle
Jim, your father, than anyone else,"
said my aunt, "and you mustn't be
jealous, dear, but I'm sure he loved
her as much as he did you"
81 don't wonder" I answered,
pressing the face in the picture to
mine. "Who could help loving her?"
'Dear baby, her mother died when
she was born, and her father enlisted
in the army when she was only two
years old. Her mothers relatives
took care of her until then, but when
Will left he begged us to 60 and get
her.
" I shall feel safe if she is with
you, he wrote to mother, and Jim was
sent to the city to bring her home.
How we'll remember that day. How
we cried over her, mother and I, and
how solemnly she gazed at us from
her crying for papa, but in his ten
der way he had won her small heart.
"When she was three years old
Will was sent home on sick leave.
After one little dazed moment and q
look at Jim, she went straight to her
fathers arms. He, poor fellow,
wouldn't allow her out of his sight.
sAfter we told her who he was. she
called him papa in her quiet voice
and would sit patiently by his side,
smoothing his hair and grooming q
queer little song Jim had taught her
till he would fall asleep.
She amt no reg'lar child, old
Aunt Barbara, the colored cook, would
often declare, She's old, she is; she
beats my time Born in sad times,
dear baby, she almost seemed to real
lze it!
"Then Will left us and took Jim
with him. Your father couldn't stay