a level, grassy plain. Beyond the hill-top, reveille was still
sounding. A military camp was near me, and although I made no
move, my mind was up and busy as the drumsticks over the hill. I
sat as quiet as a cat at a mouse-hole, looking down at my uniform,
not, indeed, the most healthful sort of dress for that country.
All at once I caught sight of a scarecrow in the corn. I laughed
at the odd grotesquery of the thing--an old frock-coat and trousers
of olive-green, faded and torn and fat with straw. A stake driven
through its collar into the earth, and crowned with an ancient,
tall hat of beaver, gave it a backbone. An idea came to me. I
would rob the scarecrow and hide my uniform. I ran out and hauled
it over, and pulled the stuffing out of it. The coat and trousers
were made for a stouter man. I drew on the latter, fattening my
figure with straw to fill them. That done, I quickly donned the
coat. Each sleeve-end fell to my fingertips, and its girth would
have circled a flour-barrel and buttoned with room to spare. But
with my stuffing of straw it came around me as snug at the belt as
the coat of a bear. I took alarm as I closed the buttons. For
half a minute I had heard a drum-tap coming nearer. It was the
measured _tap! tap! tap-tap-tap_! so familiar to me. Now I could
hear the tread of feet coming with it back of the hill. How soon
they would heave in sight I was unable to reckon, but I dared not
run for cover. So I thrust my scabbard deep in the soft earth,
pulled down the big beaver hat over my face, muffled my neck with
straw, stuck the stake in front of me to steady myself, and stood
stiff as any scarecrow in Canada. Before I was done a column,
scarlet-coated, came out in the level beyond the hillside. Through
a hole in the beaver I could see them clearly. They came on, rank
after rank. They deployed, forming an open square, scarlet-sided,
on the green turf, the gap toward me. Then came three, walking