Mr. Smitty has a throne!
The fallen tree (wattle, uprooted itself in a storm, a seed fallen on sand…) provides a high perch from which The Smee can survey all he surveys and be outstanding in his field.
“The Misters’ve got all those chairs theyselves; why can’t I have one?”
[the aforesaid is not said so much as posited, projected, potential Smee-speech]
From this fallen tree of magnificent girth, The Smee can lord it over his peeps, check the surrounding fields, hillocks, copses and gentle declivities for various vermin, chickens, pheasants, cardinals, chucks, and those little fluorescent-green-bellied birds that have been barely a snack for the Smee in days of yore.
All hail the enthroned Smee!
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