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Happy must have been the life in this greenwood realm, jolly the outlaws who danced and sang beneath its shades, merry as the day was long their hearts while summer ruled the year, while even in drear winter they had their caverns of refuge, their roaring wood-fires, and the spoils of the year’s forays to carry them through the season of cold and storm. A follower of bold Robin might truly sing, with Shakespeare,–

“Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.”

But the life of the forest-dwellers was not spent solely in enjoyment of the pleasures of the merry greenwood. They were hunted by men, and became hunters of men. True English hearts theirs, all Englishmen their friends, all Normans their foes, they were in no sense brigands, but defenders of their soil against the foreign foe who had overrun it, the successors of Hereward the Wake, the last of the English to bear arms against the invader, and to keep a shelter in which the English heart might still beat in freedom.

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.

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. There also were valiant Much, the miller’s son, gallant Scathelock, George a Green, the pindar of Wakefield, the fat and jolly Friar Tuck, and many another woodsman of renown, a band of lusty archers such as all England could not elsewhere match.

“Faith o’ my body, the hours pass apace,” quoth Little John, looking upward through the trees. “Is it not time we should dine?”

“I am not in the mood to dine without company,” said Robin. “Our table is a dull one without guests. If we had now some bold baron or fat abbot, or even a knight or squire, to help us carve our haunch of venison, and to pay his scot for the feast, I wot me all our appetites would be better.”

He laughed meaningly as he looked round the circle of faces.

“Marry, if such be your whim,” answered Little John, “tell us whither we shall go to find a guest fit to grace our greenwood table, and of what rank he shall be.”

“At least let him not be farmer or yeoman,” said Robin. “We war on hawks, not on doves. If you can bring me a bishop now, or i’ faith, the high-sheriff of Nottingham, we shall dine merrily. Take Much and Scathelock with you, and away. Bring me earl or baron, abbot or simple knight, or squire, if no better can be had; the fatter their purses the better shall be their welcome.”