Tales of Robin Hood and his merry foresters were the delight of my boyhood. Though many years have since glided away, I can recall these pleasures most vividly. Well do I recollect the youth who shared my bed, and who in school hours sat next me on the first form; and well do I remember, as we sauntered together one bright summer’s evening through the shrubbery that encircled our play-ground, his asking me to tell him some tale of Robin Hood. Willingly I complied. There was an old sycamore tree close by, standing alone upon a little lawn. Its weather-beaten trunk was girt round by a low seat, whence, through an opening in the trees, a wide extent of country presented itself to the view. 

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