All this time the carriage had been rolling along, and as they neared an open space in the forest, John suddenly caught sight of something which made him turn to his friend, the driver, and exclaim: “Oh, what are they?”
Stretching away for quite a distance on either side of the road were rows and rows of tiny, peaked houses or coops. The coachman told them that here was where they breed the pheasants which are hunted. When the birds have reached a certain age, they are set free, and a gun is fired in their midst to give them a taint of the wild. John was much interested, in spite of the fact that he considered it “a mean trick.” It really does not seem quite fair to take excellent, kindly care of any animal or bird, allow it to believe you are its friend, and then to suddenly turn it loose and proceed to hunt it for mere sport.
In strange contrast to the merry drive through Sherwood Forest, was a little incident which occurred in a village on the edge of “The Dukeries” district, where they halted to water the horses. On one side of the quaint main street is a row of old, old houses, where for many years have lived the aged people who are usually provided for by the nobleman to whom that village belongs.
All the tiny houses were empty at the time of this visit, with the exception of one where lived a dear old lady, by herself, her neighbors having all died. Mrs. Pitt went in to call upon her, as do most strangers passing through here, and was touched by her pathetic speech. She said they were simply waiting to tear down the houses until she should go, and looking tearfully up into Mrs. Pitt’s face, added: “I’m eighty-six years old now, and I won’t last much longer, but I can’t go until the Lord calls me, can I?” In spite of this, she insisted that she was quite happy, for she had her “good feather bed,”—and what more could she need?
The following morning, the party went by train to Nottingham, where they spent a short time in exploring. The present town is much like others, except in its legendary connection with Robin Hood. All visitors might not find it as fascinating as did Mrs. Pitt and the young people, who knew it as the abode of the disagreeable Sheriff whom Robin Hood heartily hated, and upon whom he continually played so many tricks, always evading punishment most successfully. They pictured the gay procession of soldiers and knights which accompanied King John when he entered that city, as the Sheriff’s guest; and to them the old market-square (the largest in all England) suggested the scene of Robin Hood’s masquerade as a butcher. There they halted and imagined him standing beside his booth, and calling out: “Now who’ll buy? who’ll buy? Four fixed prices have I. Three pennyworths of meat I sell to a fat friar or priest for sixpence, for I want not their custom; stout aldermen I charge threepence, for it doth not matter to me whether they buy or not; to buxom dames I sell three pennyworths of meat for one penny, for I like their custom well; but to the bonny lass that hath a liking for a good tight butcher, I charge nought but one fair kiss, for I like her custom the best of all.”
“It was here in Nottingham that Will Stutely had his narrow escape, wasn’t it?” questioned Betty. “He was captured by the Sheriff’s men at ‘Ye Blue Boar Inn,’ and they brought him to town and would have hanged him, if Robin Hood and his men hadn’t arrived just in time to save his life. Once Little John came to Nottingham Town and lived for some time in the Sheriff’s own castle, pretending to be the cook. My! what lots of things happened here!”
Not far away are splendid Chatsworth House, one of the palaces of the Duke of Devonshire, and lovely Haddon Hall, with its romantic story, and both of these famous places received a visit from Mrs. Pitt and her party.
Chatsworth, I am afraid, was not fully appreciated by our friends. It has a most beautiful situation—in the valley of the Derwent, which rushes along through the extensive park; the house itself is magnificent—filled with fine marble halls and rooms, and costly treasures of art; and in the gardens almost every sovereign of Europe seems to have planted some kind of a tree. One curious thing did wonderfully please the children’s fancy; that is, a marvelous weeping-willow tree, from the metal twigs and branches of which tiny streams of water come at a sign from the gardener. But somehow, on the whole, Chatsworth is cold and unfeeling, and failed to appeal to the party.
Not so was it with Haddon Hall! The most prosaic summer tourist could hardly fail to be moved by admiration of its delights. It is still a real home, and seems alive with memories of the fair Dorothy Vernon and her family. The old castle has scarcely changed at all since the sixteenth century, and one feels as though the great lords and ladies of Queen Elizabeth’s time had thoughtfully stepped out on the terrace, in order that we might wander through their noble old dwelling.
The custodian was having her afternoon-tea when the party arrived; she did not think of hurrying in the slightest, but leisurely finished this most important meal, and then received the visitors’ fees and allowed them to enter.