Folklore -- England; Robin Hood (Legendary character) -- Legends
"Now do I thank thee, good master," quoth Stutely, springing to his
feet, "that thou hast chosen me for this adventure. Truly, my limbs do
grow slack through abiding idly here. As for two of my six, I will
choose Midge the Miller and Arthur a Bland, for, as well thou knowest,
good master, they are stout fists at the quarterstaff. Is it not so,
Little John?"
At this all laughed but Little John and Robin, who twisted up his face.
"I can speak for Midge," said he, "and likewise for my cousin Scarlet.
This very blessed morn I looked at my ribs and found them as many colors
as a beggar's cloak."
So, having chosen four more stout fellows, Will Stutely and his band set
forth to Fosse Way, to find whether they might not come across some rich
guest to feast that day in Sherwood with Robin and his band.
For all the livelong day they abided near this highway. Each man had
brought with him a good store of cold meat and a bottle of stout March
beer to stay his stomach till the homecoming. So when high noontide had
come they sat them down upon the soft grass, beneath a green and
wide-spreading hawthorn bush, and held a hearty and jovial feast. After
this, one kept watch while the others napped, for it was a still and
sultry day.
Thus they passed the time pleasantly enow, but no guest such as they
desired showed his face in all the time that they lay hidden there. Many
passed along the dusty road in the glare of the sun: now it was a bevy
of chattering damsels merrily tripping along; now it was a plodding
tinker; now a merry shepherd lad; now a sturdy farmer; all gazing ahead
along the road, unconscious of the seven stout fellows that lay hidden
so near them. Such were the travelers along the way; but fat abbot, rich
esquire, or money-laden usurer came there none.
At last the sun began to sink low in the heavens; the light grew red and
the shadows long. The air grew full of silence, the birds twittered
sleepily, and from afar came, faint and clear, the musical song of the
milkmaid calling the kine home to the milking.
Then Stutely arose from where he was lying. "A plague of such ill
luck!" quoth he. "Here have we abided all day, and no bird worth the
shooting, so to speak, hath come within reach of our bolt. Had I gone
forth on an innocent errand, I had met a dozen stout priests or a score
of pursy money-lenders. But it is ever thus: the dun deer are never so
scarce as when one has a gray goose feather nipped betwixt the fingers.
Come, lads, let us pack up and home again, say I."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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