“Our delicacies,” said Harley to himself, “are fantastic; they are not in nature!  That beggar walks over the sharpest of these stones barefooted, whilst I have lost the most delightful dream in the world from the smallest of them happening to get into my shoe.”  The beggar had by this time come up, and, pulling off a piece of a hat, asked charity of Harley.  The dog began to beg, too.  It was impossible to resist both; and, in truth, the want of shoes and stockings had made both unnecessary, for Harley had destined sixpence for him before.

The beggar, on receiving it, poured forth blessings without number; and, with a sort of smile on his countenance, said to Harley that if he wanted to have his fortune told—­Harley turned his eye briskly upon the beggar; it was an unpromising look for the subject of a prediction, and silenced the prophet immediately.  “I would much rather learn” said Harley, “what it is in your power to tell me.  Your trade must be an entertaining one; sit down on this stone, and let me know something of your profession; I have often thought of turning fortune teller for a week or two, myself.”

“Master,” replied the beggar, “I like your frankness much, for I had the humor of plain dealing in me from a child; but there is no doing with it in this world,—­we must do as we can; and lying is, as you call it, my profession.  But I was in some sort forced to the trade, for I once dealt in telling the truth.  I was a laborer, sir, and gained as much as to make me live.  I never laid by, indeed, for I was reckoned a piece of a wag, and your wags, I take it, are seldom rich, Mr. Harley.”  “So,” said Harley, “you seem to know me.”  “Ay, there are few folks in the country that I do n’t know something of.  How should I tell fortunes else?” “True,—­but go on with your story; you were a laborer, you say, and a wag; your industry, I suppose, you left with your old trade; but your humor you preserved to be of use to you in your new.”

“What signifies sadness, sir?  A man grows lean on ’t.  But I was brought to my idleness by degrees; sickness first disabled me, and it went against my stomach to work, ever after.  But, in truth, I was for a long time so weak that I spit blood whenever I attempted to work.  I had no relation living, and I never kept a friend above a week when I was able to joke.  Thus I was forced to beg my bread, and a sorry trade I have found it, Mr. Harley.  I told all my misfortunes truly, but they were seldom believed; and the few who gave me a half-penny as they passed, did it with a shake of the head, and an injunction not to trouble them with a long story.  In short, I found that people do n’t care to give alms without some security for their money,—­such as a wooden leg, or a withered arm, for example.  So I changed my plan, and instead of telling my own misfortunes, began to prophesy happiness to others.