“Dear Sir: The undersigned would state that he served two years and nine months--until wounded in action--in the Fighting Two Hundred and Tenth New York Infantry, and has been much interested to see what other comrades wrote for the papers regarding same in connection with the Rebellion War of North and South respectively. I would state that during the battle of Chickamauga I was for a while lying near by to a Confederate soldier--name unknown--who was dying on account of a wound in the chest. By his request I gave him a drink of water from my canteen, he dying shortly thereafter. Being myself wounded--right knee shattered by a Minie ball--I was removed to a field hospital; but before doing so I brought away this man's knapsack for a keepsake of the occasion. Some years later I found in said knapsack a letter, which previous to then was overlooked by me. I inclose herewith a copy of said letter, which it may be interesting for reading purposes by surviving comrades. “Respectfully yours, “Jacob Speck, “Late Corporal L Company, “Fighting Two Hundred and Tenth New York, U. S. A.” With deliberation and squeaky emphasis the pen progressed slowly across the paper, while the corporal, with his left hand, held flat the dead man's ancient letter before him, intent on copying it. Hard words puzzled him and long words daunted him, and he was making a long job of it when there were steps in the hall without. Entered breezily Miss Hortense Engel, the eldest of all the multiplying Engels, pretty beyond question and every inch American, having the gift of wearing Lower Sixth Avenue's stock designs in a way to make them seem Upper Fifth Avenue's imported models. Miss Engel's face was pleasantly flushed; she had just parted lingeringly from her steady company, Mr. Lawrence J. McLaughlin, plumber's helper, in the lower hallway, which is the trysting place and courting place of tenement-dwelling sweethearts, and now she had come to make ready the family's cold Sunday night tea. At sight of her the corporal had another inspiration--his second within the hour. His brow smoothed and he fetched a sigh of relief. “'Lo, grosspops!” she said. “How's every little thing? The kiddo all right?” She unpinned a Sunday hat that was plumed like a hearse and slipped on a long apron that covered her from high collar to hobble hem. “Girl,” said her grandfather, “would you make to-morrow for me at the office a copy of this letter on the typewriter machine?” He spoke in German and she answered in New-Yorkese, while her nimble fingers wrestled with the task of back-buttoning her apron. “Sure thing! It won't take hardly a minute to rattle that off. Funny-looking old thing!” she went on, taking up the creased and faded original. “Who wrote it? And whatcher goin' to do with it, grosspops?” “That,” he told her, “is mine own business! It is for you, please, to make the copy and bring both to me to-morrow, the letter and also the copy.”