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Show The Goat Is Dead n n n n n Lonj Live the Goat THERE was placed in a grave yesterday yester-day forenoon at the Salt Lake Gun club, unhonored and unsung, one who was absolutely without a friend in the world. For more than fifteen years Bert Brown bore patiently and uncomplainingly the taunts and Jeers of his fellow trapshoot-ers. trapshoot-ers. Never in all that long stretch of time did any one extend a nand to Bert Brown in greeting when he came, nor whisper a Godspeed when he departed. Bert Brown was alone in the world, shunned by those he served faithfully and excoriated by those whom he sought to propitiate. Just how many years were multiplied in the lifetime of Bert Brown, no one knew. Of him It was known only that, some fifteen years ago. Bert Brown, forlorn for-lorn of appearance, diffident of manner, hesitating of address and modest unto sullenness, appeared one bright, sunshiny forenoon at the old range of the Salt Lake Gun club. Haltingly and with painful pain-ful confusion, Bert Brown made known his desire. He sought to be a trap-shooter. trap-shooter. No sooner had he been accepted for membership in the club than he came to be despised. Why, no one could tell. Enough that he was scorned by all. His timid advances towards friendships were repulsed and reproaches of biting bitterness bitter-ness were heaped upon him. As time passed, Bert Brown made his appearance each and every Sunday forenoon fore-noon at the gun club range. He became a landmark, although a retiring and inconspicuous in-conspicuous one. Long since Bert Brown had ceased his endeavors to draw intimates inti-mates to him. and he went about, silent and moody, although never resentful. He was each week subjected to the most cruel indignities that merciless mind could plot and cruel heart could inflict. Often through all those years persons who consulted the gun club scores were con trained to remark that Bert Brown was ever and always at the bottom of the list. Sometimes Bert Brown was credited with "7x50." but more often he shot much lower. Once he was given a mark of "12x50," and the toll owing Sunday Sun-day a new scorekeeper was on hand. Thereafter Bert Brown never once broke more than 10 targets; and never in all the fifteen years that Bert Brown shot his level best did his name appear in any place other than last. Truly, such lack of fortune or such lack of skill would have discouraged the stoutest heart, but not for one instant did the long suffering Bert Brown falter. He did his best. Some time last week Bert Brown died. Just when or how, nobody knows. Yesterday Yes-terday morning when the shooters arrived at the gun club range they found Bert Brown stark in death. He had come to the place he loved best to breathe his last breath, and the lingering wafts of gunpowder fumes made his last moments happy, no doubt. Without ado and without ceremony Bert Brown was burled, and never a tear was shed, nor yet a kind word spoken. As in life. Bert Brown was friendless In death. By reference to the gun club score for yesterday's shoot, it will be seen that the name of Bert Brown is no longer inscribed on the rolls. Willie Jones has taken his place. Thus the mutations of life: Bert Brown is dead; Willie Jones lives. May Willie's life he circumstanced with more of joy than was that of the wretched Bert Brown. |