“Yes, that was really more associated with the famous outlaw than Mansfield. You’ll see Nottingham this afternoon, or, at any rate, to-morrow. Now, come this way to the Swan Hotel. While you girls unpack, I’ll see that some horses are harnessed so that we can soon set off to the forest.” Mrs. Pitt then led the way from the market-square toward the inn of which she had spoken.
Before the carriage was ready, the young people had thoroughly explored this remarkable old house. Perhaps the most notable thing about it is the spiral staircase of solid oak, which is three hundred years old; but the entire building is filled with little passages and unexpected, remote nooks and corners, which, like the quaint bedrooms, are crowded with curios, old pictures, and superb antique furniture. Betty declared she had never seen such a “darling old four-poster” as the one which stood in her room, the favorite Number Nine for which all visitors clamor. Altogether, they considered it a most delightful place, and Betty thought that without too great a stretch of the imagination, she could even think of Robin Hood or Little John there.
The hostess hastened to prepare a delicious, early lunch especially for the party, and having partaken of it, they went at once to the open carriage which was drawn up in the odd little inn-yard. John, as usual, claimed the seat beside the driver, the others settled themselves, and they started off.
No sooner had they reached the open country than Betty’s pent-up spirits overflowed entirely.
“Oh, do you see that little river flowing through the meadows?” she suddenly cried, standing up to point at it excitedly. “See the reeds along its edges, the field of tall grain, and the old tree trunk which has fallen across the water! I just know that must be the place where Robin first met Little John. They had a fight on a narrow foot-bridge, you know, and Little John (who wasn’t ‘little’ at all) was the stronger, and tumbled Robin Hood over into the brook. Don’t you remember, John? That looks exactly like the picture in my Howard Pyle’s ‘Robin Hood,’ at home. Oh, I’m perfectly sure it must be the same place! Aren’t you, Mrs. Pitt?”
This enthusiasm of Betty’s was soon caught by the rest, and during the whole afternoon they took turns in telling, one after another, the “Merry Adventures of Robin Hood,” as they recalled them. There could not be a section of country which more perfectly suggests the setting for that particular group of legends which has been associated with it. Here surely is the identical woodland through which Robin Hood and his merry men roamed. No one could possibly mistake it! Here are the very same trees, behind which one can almost see lurking the men in “Lincoln green.” Here are ideal little glades carpeted with dainty ferns, here and there touched with the sunlight which flashes between the leaves. Sometimes the road emerges from the forest, and winds along through broad fields,—the “high road” bordered by green meadows and hedgerows.
“You know,” began Mrs. Pitt, her eyes sparkling with fun, “when Robin and his men had been in hiding for some days or weeks, perhaps, because the old Sheriff of Nottingham was trying particularly hard to catch them at the time, some of the most venturesome ones, not being able to exist longer under the restraint, would start off in search of adventure; and leaving a bit reluctantly the heart of Sherwood Forest, they always made straight for the ‘high road.’ Now in just such a place as this, by the cross-roads, Little John, garbed as a gray friar, met the three lasses who were carrying their eggs to the market at Tuxford. He swung one basket from his rosary, about his neck, and took one in either hand, and thus he accompanied the maids to town. Am I right? Is that the tale?”
“Yes,” continued Philip, taking up the story where his mother had left off; “then he went to a ‘fair, thatched inn,’ you know, and he sat drinking with the tinker, the peddler, and the beggar, when the two rich brothers from Fountains Abbey came out to start again on their journey to York. Little John thought there’d be some fun, and perhaps some good money for him, if he decided to go part of the way with them, so he did. Don’t you remember that one brother was very tall and thin, and the other very short and stout? They were proud and ashamed of being seen on the road in the company of a poor friar whose gown was too short for him, as was Little John’s. But he insisted upon staying by, and strode along between their two nags. Whenever they met anybody—beggars, fair lords and ladies, or fat Bishops—Little John called out: ‘Here we go; we three!’”
“And then,” broke in Betty, her face literally radiant, “don’t you know how Little John finally robbed them? That was best of all! When they came to a certain parting of the ways, he did consent to leave them, but first he asked for a few pence, as he was poor. Both brothers declared that they hadn’t any money, at which Little John insisted upon their kneeling down on the dusty road and praying to the good St. Dunstan to send them each ten shillings, so that they could continue their journey in safety and comfort. You know, he thought it such a pity for two such worthy brothers to be in sore need of food and drink!” The children were unconsciously lapsing into the language of the Robin Hood stories, as they rattled on and on.
“Well,” Betty went on, “Little John prayed and prayed, and then he asked the brothers to feel and see if the good St. Dunstan hadn’t sent them something. Time after time this performance was repeated, and still they said they had nothing. Finally Little John himself felt in their pouches and found,—oh, heaps of money! He left the brothers ten shillings each, and carried away the rest, saying he was sure that the good St. Dunstan had meant it for him! Oh, I think I like Little John best of all,—almost better even than Robin Hood! He always did such cute things!”