Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 2, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 January 1892 — BILL SUDDENLY APPEARED. [ARTICLE]

BILL SUDDENLY APPEARED.

A Kodak Man’s Sad Experience with a Long Island Farmer. He wub a young and enthusiustic disciple of the Kodak out to catch up a few scenes on Long Island. Ho reached what his urtistic instinct told him was a wild and picturesque locality, to be accosted by a farmer leaning on the gute with: “No use, mister! We’ve got all the Ynnkoo notions we want.” “But I'm not selliug Yankee notions!” indignantly replied the artist. “Wall, wo don't want no patent medicines, sowing machines, musio-boxes or cloth by the yard.” “1 haven’t any, sir.” “Lightning rods or patent farm-gates, mohbe, but 1 don’t want to dicker. Might us well go right on.” “My dear sir,” softly began the young man, “I suppose you have hoard of the kodak?” “Never did and don't want to.” “But you have heard of artists?” “Mebbo so, but I don't want any. I'm old and lame and no fighter, but my son Bill is cleanin' outs in the barn over thore, nnd you’d better go on afore I call him! Bill’s a great bund to light down on strangers and make ’em tirod.” “You don't seem to understand,” explained the urtist. “This is a photographic instrumen 1 . I am out to take photographs. This is a very picturesque outlook across the hills, and 1 should like 1 your permission to take a few views.” “Can't havo it, stranger. Feilor was ! hero about a mouth ago for that very I thing, and when he went away ho stole I a shoop-skin off the stable door. Ho had a box just like that, and he called hissulf an artist.” “But I nm no thief!” “Mebbo not, but wo have to look out around here. Bettor go on uforo 1 call to Bill. It's seven days now since Bill chawed up a chicken peddler, und bo’s achin’ fur a row.” “I supposo 1 can stand here in the road nnd take a view of your house?” queriod the artist. “Bolter not. The old Woman is lookin’ out of tho window and she'd suspect you was in with a gang of burglars. Hark! You cun hoar Bill singin’ ‘Heaven Is My Home.’ Look out for Bill when you hear him singin' hymns, lie's achin' to chaw somebody up.” “I’d like to get a picture of that cow under the tree,” said the urtist, as he lookod around. “Better let ’em alone!" warned the old man. “I wish I could make you understand my ideu. You must havo bud artists along here before. You must know—” “Yes, 1 do. We’vo bad lots of artists along here. One of ’em stole a sheepskin, us 1 tod you, another went off with fourtocn feet of log-chain, and the one who came last wook got a bad silver dolluroff on the old woman fur his dinner. Bill’s a-ruising his voice all the time, und that means lie smells a fight. Better walk on, stranger!” “Oh, if you are as obstinato and prejudiced as this 1 shun t bother you. You don't own nil of Long Island, however, I suppose ?” "Mebbe not, but I'll usk Bill. He knows where our line is better'n I do. Bill! oh, Bill!” Bill suddenly appeared in the open barn door. Ho appeared to be eleven feet high. As he caught sight of the artist In appeared to cover 21 feet of ground at the first jump. Down the highway flitted a dark shadow carrying a kodak. At his heels was u something bareheaded and in his shirt-sleeves, und yelling at every jump. And the spotted cow under the leafless maple swallowed her cud und switched her tail in token of peace on earth and good will to men, and the picturesque dells and groves and hillsides of Long Island softly gurgled to each other that if Bill’s wind held out for four miles he would bout the game. —[M. Quad, in New York World.