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Little John and the Tanner of Blyth
HereLittleJohnsuddenlyceasedwhistlingandstoppedinthemiddleofthepath.Firsthelookedupandthenhelookeddown,andthen,tiltinghiscapoveroneeye,heslowlyscratchedthebackpartofhishead.Forthusitwas:atthesightofthesetworoads,twovoicesbegantoalarumwithinhim,theonecrying,"ThereliestheroadtotheBlueBoarInn,acanofbrownOctober,andamerrynightwithsweetcompanionssuchasthoumaystfindthere";theother,"ThereliesthewaytoAncasterandthedutythouartsentupon."Nowthefirstofthesetwovoiceswasfarthelouder,forLittleJohnhadgrownpassingfondofgoodlivingthroughabidingattheSheriff’shouse;so,presently,lookingupintothebluesky,acrosswhichbrightcloudsweresailinglikesilverboats,andswallowsskimmingincirclingflight,quothhe,"Ifearmeitwillrainthisevening,soI’lle’enstopattheBlueBoartillitpassesby,forIknowmygoodmasterwouldnothavemewettotheskin."So,withoutmoreado,offhestrodedownthepaththatlaythewayofhislikings.Nowtherewasnosignofanyfoulweather,butwhenonewishestodoathing,asLittleJohndid,onefindsnolackofreasonsforthedoing.
FourmerrywagswereattheBlueBoarInn;abutcher,abeggar,andtwobarefootfriars.LittleJohnheardthemsingingfromafar,ashewalkedthroughthehushofthemellowtwilightthatwasnowfallingoverhillanddale.RightgladweretheytowelcomesuchamerrybladeasLittleJohn.
