Пригоди Робін Гуда

           Thatmorninghehadslunghisgoodoldbuglehornoverhisshoulder,andnow,withtheyearning,cameagreatlongingtosoundhisbugleoncemore.Heraisedittohislips;heblewablast."Tirila,lirila,"thesweet,clearnoteswentwindingdowntheforestpaths,comingbackagainfromthemoredistantboskyshadesinfaintechoesofsound,"Tirila,lirila,tirila,lirila,"untilitfadedawayandwaslost.

           NowitchancedthatonthatverymornLittleJohnwaswalkingthroughaspuroftheforestuponcertainmattersofbusiness,andashepacedalong,sunkinmeditation,thefaint,clearnotesofadistantbuglehorncametohisear.Asleapsthestagwhenitfeelsthearrowatitsheart,soleapedLittleJohnwhenthatdistantsoundmethisear.Allthebloodinhisbodyseemedtorushlikeaflameintohischeeksashebenthisheadandlistened.Againcamethebuglenote,thinandclear,andyetagainitsounded.ThenLittleJohngaveagreat,wildcryofyearning,ofjoy,andyetofgrief,and,puttingdownhishead,hedashedintothethicket.Onwardheplunged,cracklingandrending,asthewildboarrushesthroughtheunderbrush.Littlereckedheofthornsandbriersthatscratchedhisfleshandtorehisclothing,forallhethoughtofwastoget,bytheshortestway,tothegreenwoodgladewhenceheknewthesoundofthebuglehorncame.Outheburstfromthecovert,atlast,ashoweroflittlebrokentwigsfallingabouthim,and,withoutpausingamoment,rushedforwardandflunghimselfatRobin’sfeet.