Little John Turns Barefoot Friar

           COLDWINTERhadpassedandspringhadcome.Noleafythicknesshadyetcladthewoodlands,butthebuddingleaveshunglikeatendermistaboutthetrees.Intheopencountrythemeadowlandslayasheenygreen,thecornfieldsadarkvelvetycolor,fortheywerethickandsoftwiththegrowingblades.Theplowboyshoutedinthesun,andinthepurplenew-turnedfurrowsflocksofbirdshuntedforfatworms.Allthebroadmoistearthsmiledinthewarmlight,andeachlittlegreenhillclappeditshandforjoy.

           Onadeer’shide,stretchedonthegroundintheopeninfrontofthegreenwoodtree,satRobinHoodbaskinginthesunlikeanolddogfox.Leaningbackwithhishandsclaspedabouthisknees,helazilywatchedLittleJohnrollingastoutbowstringfromlongstrandsofhempenthread,wettingthepalmsofhishandseverandanon,androllingthecorduponhisthigh.NearbysatAllanaDalefittinganewstringtohisharp.

           QuothRobinatlast,"MethinksIwouldratherroamthisforestinthegentlespringtimethanbeKingofallmerryEngland.Whatpalaceinthebroadworldisasfairasthissweetwoodlandjustnow,andwhatkinginalltheworldhathsuchappetiteforplover’seggsandlampreysasIforjuicyvenisonandsparklingale?GafferSwantholdspeakstrulywhenhesaith,‘Betteracrustwithcontentthanhoneywithasourheart.’"

           "Yea,"quothLittleJohn,asherubbedhisnew-madebowstringwithyellowbeeswax,"thelifeweleadisthelifeforme.