he Stool of Fortune

ONCE upon a time there
came a soldier marching along
the road, kicking up a little
cloud of dust’ at each step—as
strapping and merry and bright-
eyed a fellow as you would wish
to see in asummer day. Tramp!
tramp! tramp! he marched,
whistling as he jogged along,
though he carried a heavy
musket over his shoulder and
though the sun shone hot and
strong and there was never a
tree in sight to give him a bit
of shelter.

At last he came in sight of
the King’s Town and to a great
field of stocks and stones, and
there sat a little old man as
withered and brown as a dead

leaf, and clad all in scarlet from head to foot.
“Ho! soldier,” said he, ‘are you a good shot?”
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