Leaning back with his hands clasped about his knees, he lazily watched
Little John rolling a stout bowstring from long strands of hempen
thread, wetting the palms of his hands ever and anon, and rolling the
cord upon his thigh. Near by sat Allan a Dale fitting a new string to
his harp.
Quoth Robin at last, "Methinks I would rather roam this forest in the
gentle springtime than be King of all merry England. What palace in the
broad world is as fair as this sweet woodland just now, and what king in
all the world hath such appetite for plover's eggs and lampreys as I for
juicy venison and sparkling ale? Gaffer Swanthold speaks truly when he
saith, 'Better a crust with content than honey with a sour heart.'"
"Yea," quoth Little John, as he rubbed his new-made bowstring with
yellow beeswax, "the life we lead is the life for me. Thou speakest of
the springtime, but methinks even the winter hath its own joys. Thou
and I, good master, have had more than one merry day, this winter past,
at the Blue Boar. Dost thou not remember that night thou and Will
Stutely and Friar Tuck and I passed at that same hostelry with the two
beggars and the strolling friar?"
"Yea," quoth merry Robin, laughing, "that was the night that Will
Stutely must needs snatch a kiss from the stout hostess, and got a
canakin of ale emptied over his head for his pains.
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