SHOTGUN BILL. Dead, stranger, as dead as a nugget; You knowed him? Well, Shotgun Bill Was a man to know - and a good un; He guarded the treasure box For twenty years on the stage line That crosses the ridge to Locks. And he never came in empty, Tho' they rattled him some at spells, And his hide was as full of buckshot As a pine cone is of cells. The woods were full of agents Them days, but they learned to know When Billy was with the boodle They must play it mighty low! For he rather liked a scrimmage, And shootin'-that was his trade: He could squint more ways in a minute Than any three men that 's made; And the pop of his gun was persuasive When it chirruped along the grade. But they like to fetched him one time. A pretty gal, with big, sweet eyes And you should 'a' seen her smile on Bill When the rascal helped her down. The boys was green with envy, And they all came in that night To eat their suppers the second time Of her rosy face in the dining room; When Bill waltzed in with her on his arm And his head way up in air. She come a seekin' a friend, she said -- Which he had a high-strung name But no one knowed him, altho' we 'lowed He might be here just the same. However, next morning early, When the stage was 'bout to go, The whereabouts of this friend o' hern So Bill went off in feather; But his smile was not so gay If you are notin' my gentle voice He held them off- don't you forget Till William made his rush, When flurried-like, the gents turned tail The bird had flown, nor taken time Now that's what riled poor William. He'd asked the gal to marry him, And what is more, he once declared - If he could find her once again He'd hold her to it yet! A cocktail? Thanks, I'm with ye'. And if you climb the hill Just drop a posy where he lies. Here's lookin' to ye, Bill! D. S. Richardson. A SHADOW OF GOLD. "WHY, auntie," said I, "you have never showed me this before." I was sitting, my lap filled with odds and ends of sketches, in the sunny window of Aunt Ellen's bright little study. She was not much of an artist, this dear old aunt of mine; but she took an unfailing delight in the laborious production of the stiff, minute little pen and ink drawings that had been the fashion in her girlhood. Disconsolate elms always waved in feeble and feathery manner in these landscapes, while beneath their shadow cattle of remarkable anatomy gazed at themselves in preternatural pools. It was with a good deal of surprise that from these familiar productions, to which I was awarding absently the praise that rejoiced auntie's heart, I saw fall one of a very different nature. Not a feather elm this time, not even a pen and ink sketch; but a girl's head, outlined by vague, fragmentary touches, and defined mainly by faint washes of soft color. "It's because you never finished her, I suppose," I remarked critically, "that she has such a curious expression of suspense what papa would call a look of arrested development. I don't see what there is in the face that repels me so strongly. It is rather weak, of course, but that may be because the washes are so faint. She seems to be looking through a mist, and she lacks form. But she's pretty, very pretty." "Yes, that's just it; but she could n't have much form, you know," said Aunt Ellen, absently; "and she is pretty, poor child." never thought of her being a portrait. Is envelope in her hand. I hate telegrams, and she still alive?" Aunt Ellen's knitting dropped in her lap, and she looked straight at me. Aunt Ellen always answered the exact truth to a question. "I don't know, my dear," she said seriously. "Why, auntie! Who is she, and how did you come to know her?" "Her name was Martha Clinton, Alice. I do not think that I will tell you the story of our acquaintance." "Oh, but you must; for your hints are so mysterious that she 'll just haunt me night and day if I don't know all about her. Is she one of your numerous adopted daughters? And did she tell you her love affairs, and all the secrets of her heart? They always do, you know, dear little Mother Ellen. You say you don't know whether she is alive or not? How dreadful!" "After all, why not?" asked auntie of the calla lily. The calla had no possible reason to give; so after an abstracted little pause, she settled her cap — auntie's dainty caps were apt to be a trifle awry — and began: "It was about four o'clock on a January afternoon that I first saw little Martha. You were a child at school and don't remember; but your Uncle Henry had invited us all that year to spend the holidays at the old homestead farm at Bayford. Your cousin Harry was at home from college, and we had quite a company of young people, and a very jolly time. Pretty Mabel Lee was there among the others. such a fresh, sunny, wholesome child! She was my great pet, the prettiest of all the girls there in my opinion, and I could see that Harry, for one, quite agreed with me. "Well, a mild, sunshiny afternoon had come, and I was taking a stroll along the river path with old Mrs. Shrieve. We were chatting away cosily, when Bridget came running from the house with a big yellow our family is so large that something may always have happened to somebody. But I pulled it open; and I'm ashamed to say that the first thing I felt was a sense of relief. "My old uncle, Stephen Hunt, is dead, Mrs. Shrieve,' I said, 'and I shall have to go to Oakton to settle his affairs. He was on my father's side, you know, and I am the nearest living relative.' "As I spoke my eyes wandered to the little river, which had not frozen that winter, and was flowing peaceably by the side of the road. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and the smooth surface reflected perfectly each snowy twig and shriveled leaf of the bushes on the bank above. There's nothing but pen and ink to render effects like that. But to my surprise and perplexity, I saw amid the reflections of the low alder bushes, that of a slight girlish figure, dressed in a clinging garment of a peculiar reddish tint. I saw at once that she was not one of the girls in the house. She had no wrap on, not even a hat, and my first thought was that she was a very imprudent child. Her attitude, so far as I could judge it inverted, was that of arrested attention, surprise, and it seemed to me, delight. "How did a graceful young girl come to be standing in that thicket of snowy brambles on the other side of the river? I looked up quickly, meaning, whoever she was, to order her to go straight home and wrap herself up. "There was no one to be seen! The branches of the alder thicket shone lustrous black beneath their white burdens; the late sunshine slanted quietly across the frosty ground, and in the spot where I had looked for a young lady two wee sparrows were peacefully hopping and twittering. Thoroughly bewildered, I caught a last echo of good Mrs. Shrieve's rather lengthy condolences. "Did you know your uncle well?' she was saying. "Now I am forced to confess that I had forgotten all about Uncle Stephen and the telegram. I had n't met him for years, and he had been a very disagreeable old man, whom I had avoided thinking of as much as possible. He lived all by himself in a forlorn old house at Oakton, and people said that he was a skinflint, a regular miser of the old-fashioned type, who spent all his time fingering and patting the piles of money which he had accumulated. There were some excuses for him, I suppose. My grandfather had been a hard man, and I had heard people say that Stephen's moroseness and meanness had developed themselves rather late in life, after some contest with his father. But I always remembered him as I had seen him once when I was a little girl an old-looking man already, with an evil, pinched face, patting a bulgy pocketbook from which he gave me with much preamble a two-cent piece. I know I threw the penny away and rubbed my little hand hard when I left him. "But of course I was not going to gossip with old Mrs. Shrieve about my dead uncle; so I went back to the house, and soon after supper left the young people playing dumb crambo, and climbed up to my room. I had chosen to be in an L all by myself, for dearly as I love young people, I was n't young myself, even then, and I love to have my quiet, especially at night. There was not much furniture in the room, I remember, except a tall, old mirror in the corner opposite the fire. Well, when my packing was finished, I sat down before the fire with my Emerson. To tell the truth I did n't expect to read much; for I was very sleepy, and thought it likely that I should take a series of nice little naps, until it should be ten o'clock and my principles should allow me to go to bed. But I grew less and less sleepy every minute, and yet I found it absolutely impossible to fix my attention on the 'Over-Soul.' My thoughts would persist in wandering off in the least agreeable direction. I had never remembered my uncle Stephen's existence when he was alive; but now that he was dead, some power external to myself forced me to think over one scene after another in his forlorn old life. I saw him chuckling as he smoothed dirty money against his wrinkled cheek; or hiding it with a hideous leer in a hole in the wall; or finally dying, parched and dreary, with no companion but his shining coins. The strange thing was, that whereas I had known my uncle, and had always thought of him, as an elderly man, his ghostly face. seemed in my vision to be constantly struggling after youthfulness. One moment it would appear to me smooth, handsome, almost inerry; the next, the lines of care and avarice would creep into cheek and forehead, and the gay smile become fixed in a thin-lipped, greedy grin. But at last these horrible impressions faded away, and were succeeded by another, even more unpleasant. I felt that some one was looking at me; yes, my dear, I felt it so strongly that I put up my hand and straightened my cap. I stood it as long as I could; but I never did believe, as some women do, in enduring things just for the pleasure of the discomfort. So I pushed away my chair, and stepped back into the room. "Of course there was no one to be seen. But as I now stood, I could look straight into the depths of the corner mirror, and became aware of a slight disturbance there. A puff of smoke had blown out from the fire, and hung poised, a delicate veil interposed between my sight and the reflected wall behind. As I looked, the smoke, instead of being dissipated, seemed to become more dense, to take upon itself an opaline and rosy tint. A moment more, and I saw -I cannot say distinctly, yet I saw emerging from faint wreaths of fire-lit smoke, a face. A girl's face, whose wistful eyes, fixed firmly on my own, gazed at me through a shifting veil of vapor, and whose pale |