Then, after a while, he began to grow hungry, whereupon his mind turned from thoughts of springtime and flowers and birds and dwelled upon boiled capons, Malmsey, white bread, and the like, with great tenderness.  Quoth he to himself, “I would I had Willie Wynkin’s wishing coat; I know right well what I should wish for, and this it should be.”  Here he marked upon the fingers of his left hand with the forefinger of his right hand those things which he wished for.  “Firstly, I would have a sweet brown pie of tender larks; mark ye, not dry cooked, but with a good sop of gravy to moisten it withal.  Next, I would have a pretty pullet, fairly boiled, with tender pigeons’ eggs, cunningly sliced, garnishing the platter around.  With these I would have a long, slim loaf of wheaten bread that hath been baked upon the hearth; it should be warm from the fire, with glossy brown crust, the color of the hair of mine own Maid Marian, and this same crust should be as crisp and brittle as the thin white ice that lies across the furrows in the early winter’s morning.  These will do for the more solid things; but with these I must have three potties, fat and round, one full of Malmsey, one of Canary, and one brimming full of mine own dear lusty sack.”  Thus spoke Robin to himself, his mouth growing moist at the corners with the thoughts of the good things he had raised in his own mind.

So, talking to himself, he came to where the dusty road turned sharply around the hedge, all tender with the green of the coming leaf, and there he saw before him a stout fellow sitting upon a stile, swinging his legs in idleness.  All about this lusty rogue dangled divers pouches and bags of different sizes and kinds, a dozen or more, with great, wide, gaping mouths, like a brood of hungry daws.  His coat was gathered in at his waist, and was patched with as many colors as there are stripes upon a Maypole in the springtide.  On his head he wore a great tall leathern cap, and across his knees rested a stout quarterstaff of blackthorn, full as long and heavy as Robin’s.  As jolly a beggar was he as ever trod the lanes and byways of Nottinghamshire, for his eyes were as gray as slate, and snapped and twinkled and danced with merriment, and his black hair curled close all over his head in little rings of kinkiness.

“Halloa, good fellow,” quoth Robin, when he had come nigh to the other, “what art thou doing here this merry day, when the flowers are peeping and the buds are swelling?”

Then the other winked one eye and straightway trolled forth in a merry voice: 

     “I sit upon the stile,
     And I sing a little while
 As I wait for my own true dear, O,
     For the sun is shining bright,
     And the leaves are dancing light,
 And the little fowl sings she is near, O.

“And so it is with me, bully boy, saving that my doxy cometh not.”

“Now that is a right sweet song,” quoth Robin, “and, were I in the right mind to listen to thee, I could bear well to hear more; but I have two things of seriousness to ask of thee; so listen, I prythee.”