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 a summer 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?" "Aye," said the soldier, "that is my trade." "Would you like to earn a dollar by shooting off your musket for me?" "Aye," said the soldier, "that is my trade also."