All the band stared and many laughed, for never had they seen their master in such a fantastic guise before.

“Truly,” quoth Robin, holding up his arms and looking down at himself, “I do think it be somewhat of a gay, gaudy, grasshopper dress; but it is a pretty thing for all that, and doth not ill befit the turn of my looks, albeit I wear it but for the nonce.  But stay, Little John, here are two bags that I would have thee carry in thy pouch for the sake of safekeeping.  I can ill care for them myself beneath this motley.”

“Why, master,” quoth Little John, taking the bags and weighing them in his hand, “here is the chink of gold.”

“Well, what an there be,” said Robin, “it is mine own coin and the band is none the worse for what is there.  Come, busk ye, lads,” and he turned quickly away.  “Get ye ready straightway.”  Then gathering the score together in a close rank, in the midst of which were Allan a Dale and Friar Tuck, he led them forth upon their way from the forest shades.

So they walked on for a long time till they had come out of Sherwood and to the vale of Rotherstream.  Here were different sights from what one saw in the forest; hedgerows, broad fields of barley corn, pasture lands rolling upward till they met the sky and all dotted over with flocks of white sheep, hayfields whence came the odor of new-mown hay that lay in smooth swathes over which skimmed the swifts in rapid flight; such they saw, and different was it, I wot, from the tangled depths of the sweet woodlands, but full as fair.  Thus Robin led his band, walking blithely with chest thrown out and head thrown back, snuffing the odors of the gentle breeze that came drifting from over the hayfields.

“Truly,” quoth he, “the dear world is as fair here as in the woodland shades.  Who calls it a vale of tears?  Methinks it is but the darkness in our minds that bringeth gloom to the world.  For what sayeth that merry song thou singest, Little John?  Is it not thus?

“For when my love’s eyes do thine, do thine, And when her lips smile so rare, The day it is jocund and fine, so fine, Though let it be wet or be fair And when the stout ale is all flowing so fast, Our sorrows and troubles are things of the past.”

“Nay,” said Friar Tuck piously, “ye do think of profane things and of nought else; yet, truly, there be better safeguards against care and woe than ale drinking and bright eyes, to wit, fasting and meditation.  Look upon me, have I the likeness of a sorrowful man?”

At this a great shout of laughter went up from all around, for the night before the stout Friar had emptied twice as many canakins of ale as any one of all the merry men.

“Truly,” quoth Robin, when he could speak for laughter, “I should say that thy sorrows were about equal to thy goodliness.”