No wonder the oppressed peasants and serfs of the fields sang in gleeful
strains the deeds of the forest-dwellers; no wonder that Robin Hood
became the hero of the people, and that the homely song of the land was
full of stories of his deeds. We can scarcely call these historical
tales: they are legendary; yet it may well be that a stratum of fact
underlies the aftergrowth of romance; certainly they were history to
the people, and as such, with a mental reservation, they shall be
history to us. We propose, therefore, here to convert into prose "a
lytell geste of Robyn Hode."
It was a day in merry spring-tide. Under the sun-sprinkled shadows of
the "woody and famous forest of Barnsdale" (adjoining Sherwood) stood
gathered a group of men attired in Lincoln green, bearing long bows in
their hands and quivers of sharp-pointed arrows upon their shoulders,
hardy men all, strong of limb and bold of face.
[Illustration: ROBIN HOOD'S WOODS.]
Leaning against an oak of centuried growth stood Robin Hood, the famous
outlaw chief, a strong man and sturdy, with handsome face and merry blue
eyes, one fitted to dance cheerily in days of festival, and to strike
valiantly in hours of conflict. Beside him stood the tall and stalwart
form of Little John, whose name was given him in jest, for he was the
stoutest of the band.
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