a musician, and presently delighted us with some farmyard imitations,
and one particularly quaint impersonation, "an old lady singing with
false teeth," sent us into fits of laughter.

"You ought to go into vaudeville," we both said spontaneously, with that
vicious modern instinct to put private gifts to professional uses, and
then Billy, with shy pride, admitted that he did do a little now and
again in a professional way at harvest balls (we thought of Sheldon
Center) and the like.

"Perhaps you might like one of my professional letter-heads," he said,
handing us one apiece. I think probably the reader would like one, too.
You must imagine it in the original, with fancy displayed professional
type, regular "artiste" style, and a portrait of Billy, with his two
instruments, in one corner. And "see thou mock him not," gentle reader!

_King of Them All
BILLY WILLIAMS
THE KING OF ALL IMITATORS
Producing in Rapid Succession
A GRAND REPERTOIRE
of Imitations and Impersonations
Consisting of_:

Minstrel Bands, Circus Bands, Killing
Pigs, Cat Greeting Her Kitten, Barn-Yard
of Hens and Roosters, Opera
Singers with Guitar, Whistling with
Guitar, Old Lady Singing with False
Teeth, Cow and Calf, Harmonica with
the Guitar, Arab Song, Trombone Solo
with the Guitar.

Yes! "See thou mock him not," gentle reader, for Billy is no subject for
any man's condescension. We were in his company scarcely an hour, but we
went away with a great feeling of respect and tenderness for him, and we
hope some day to drop in on him again, and hear his music and his quaint,
manly wisdom.

"All alone in the world, Billy?"

A shade of sadness passed over his face, and was gone again, as he
smilingly answered, stroking the cat that purred and rubbed herself
against his shoulder.

"Just puss and me and the guitar," he said. "The happiest of families.
Ah! Music's a great thing of a lonely evening."

And a sense of the brave loneliness of Billy's days swept over me as we
shook his strong hand, and he gave us a cheery godspeed on our way. I am
convinced that Billy could earn quite a salary on the vaudeville stage;
but--no! he is better where he is, sitting there at his bench, with his
black cat and his guitar and his singing, manly soul.

The twilight was rapidly thickening as we left Billy, once more bent over
his work, and, the fear of "supper-time" in our hearts, we pushed on at
extra speed toward our night's lodging at Mount Morris. The o