Rhymes and Riddles
The School Shrubbery was deserving of a better name, for some of the
trees were ripe in years, with interwoven branches "that licked a
freehand drawing-book hollow", as Robin Arkness put it.
Indeed, to Robin and his Merry Men it was nothing so common as "The
Shrubbery". They called it "The Forest", wherein, on high days and
holidays, it was possible to have the most delightful adventures that
ever gladdened the heart of a romantic schoolboy.
Arkness himself had gradually gathered the band of Juniors together,
and his nimble wits were never at a loss for entertainment. His Merry
Men voted the sport he provided "real pie", knowing themselves to be a
source of envy to most of the Junior School.
A youngster needed to be sturdy and strong indeed to be admitted to the
select circle of comrades who made the Forest their haunt. Sometimes a
whole term went by without anyone qualifying for membership. This was
a very clannish band of brothers indeed!
On an afternoon which was more like midwinter than autumn, so shrewdly
nipped the air, the Merry Men collected fuel and lit a fire--not one
big enough to attract a prefect's attention, but still sufficiently
cosy to thaw the "cold ache" out of their fingers.
There was to be an open-air rehearsal for a Christmas concert, followed
by a play depicting "The Merry Life of Robin Hood, the Outlaw of
Sherwood Forest".
"Now," quoth Robin, "those of ye who can sing a cheery stave or two,
pray join me in the opening chorus. It is called 'Hail, Merry Men',
and goes to the tune of 'Hail, Smiling Morn'."
"But we don't know the words, Robin," said Flenton.
Flenton was a tall, strong boy with a somewhat melancholy face, lacking
in humour but well-liked by all. As Robin's right-hand man, he was
called "Little John", and no boy amongst them could have looked the
part more convincingly.
"Of course, thou knowest not the words, Little John, for of a truth it
was only yesterday I wrote them. But thou shalt learn them ere long,
for here is the parchment on which is written, good and fair, the
ballade of which I speak. List, my men, to the first verse, which I
will forthwith proceed to sing:
"'Hail, Merry Men, ye Merry Men, ye Merry Men,
With arrows of grey-goose quill,
With arrows of grey-goose quill,
Whose trusty fingers shoot the stag at bay,
Stag at bay, stag at bay,
Whose trusty fingers shoot the stag, the stag--at her--ay!'"
"Good!" said Little John. "I like that. It goes with a swing."
"But we don't shoot stags, Robin," demurred Will Ponder, known in
Greenwood fashion as Will Scarlet. "There aren't any round here.
Wouldn't rabbits be better?"
"Rabbits, you fathead! I mean, a murrain on thee for thy stupidity,"
said Robin. "How oft must I tell thee that we are living now--or
supposed to be living--in the reign of good King Henry the Second, when
stags were plentiful and nobody kept rabbits--that is, nobody wasted
arrows on them?"
"Don't mind him, Robin," put in Dave Storm, who, as a frequent student
of Robin Hood lore, had insisted on being called "David of Doncaster".
"Ponder's mind runs on rabbits--he has some lop-eared bunnies at home,
and writes by almost every post to remind the groom to feed them."
"Well now, no more daftness," said Robin. "This first verse has got to
be learnt by heart before we can tackle the second. All together, boys:
"'Hail, Merry Men, ye Merry Men----'
"No good! You're flat, the lot of you. What we need is the schoolroom
piano. Any stout bowmen willing to fetch it out? Marry, speak not all
at once! Tinker, hast thou brought with thee thy sweet-stringed lute?"
"I've got my mouth-organ, Robin," said he who answered to the name of
Tinker, while knowing himself to be, on the school register, plain Tom
Jaye.
"Good for thee, Tinker. And hast thou, Miller, concealed within thy
suit of Lincoln green, a mellow flute?"
"I'm never without my tin-whistle, Robin," responded Alf Agers, pulling
the instrument proudly from his pocket.
"Then, my stout Merry Men, ye shall blow your hardest on these
instruments of torture--I mean on the mellow flute and lute, while we
troll our jovial ditty under the greenwood tree."
Robin very much enjoyed talking in old English fashion, and had
secretly spent a lot of time in reading up the correct phrases to use.
Often he would forget himself and mix his old-fashioned speech with the
plainest of modern language, but it all came alike to his loyal
followers, who were, as a rule, too happy to be critical.
Buoyed up by the strains of the mouth-organ and the whistle, they made
bolder onslaughts on the opening chorus, warbling it more and more to
its author's liking each time.
"Now, good my men, the next verse, I beg of ye. It runs thus wise:
"'Hail, Merry Men, ye Merry Men, ye Merry Men,
Who only rob the rich that they may help the poor,
Whose oaken cudgels crack the crowns of knaves,
Crowns of knaves, crowns of knaves!'"
"That's O.K., Robin," said Little John, in honest admiration. "But why
shouldn't it be 'crowns of Squirms'? They're the enemy, aren't they?"
"Nay, my valiant John, dost want our first concert to break up in a
brawl? Admission will be free to esquires and friars, villains and
knaves alike. With their usual cheek, some of the Squirms will wriggle
into the front seats. Sing 'crack the crowns of Squirms' and you'll
have 'em at our throats in a jiffy."
"We can look jolly hard at them as we sing it, though," said Will
Scarlet, "so they will know we mean them by 'knaves'."
"Oh, rather!" agreed Robin. "Your deadly foes will get some sound raps
ere the concert is finished, I promise ye, my Merry Men. But never
must we give them cause to raid the platform. There'll be prefects
present, and perhaps a master or two!"
Being too wise to weary them by endless repetition, Robin dropped the
chorus there and then, and passed to the next item on the programme,
which was a song by "Allan a Dale", otherwise Frank Locke, the only
Merry Man who sang solos as a choirboy, though always painfully shy
about using his clear voice.
With nervous fingers he rustled the pages of the ditty which Robin
handed to him.
"Really, Robin, you ought to sing this yourself," he pleaded. "It's
mostly about you."
"Nay, Allan, wouldst have the populace say that Robin Hood loved
nothing better than the blowing of his own horn?"
"I'm all of a shiver," declared Allan a Dale.
"Tune up," said David of Doncaster, encouragingly. "After all,
Frank--I mean Allan--it's nice to have somebody to practise on. We
shan't mind a bit, whatever it's like."
"As you're all of a shiver, Allan a Dale," said Will Scarlet, "I've
thrown an armful of sticks on the fire. Stand with your back to it,
and chirrup."
Thus urged on, Locke sang a ballade extolling the lighthearted way in
which Robin Hood had cheated sheriffs, cozened friars, beaten foes
black and blue at quarterstaff, outshot England's finest archers, and
generally proved himself the "star turn" in the outdoor performances of
his time.
Once rid of his nervousness Allan a Dale sang well--must have acquitted
himself excellently indeed, for boys are not usually patient listeners
to vocalism, and none of them interrupted him.
"Right well wilt thou please the ears of them that list to thee, my
worthy Allan. A brave sight shalt thou be withal, clad in many
colours, with a lovely harp of gold and silver to twang as thou
singest."
"A harp!" cried poor Allan. "One of those things with green cloth
round it, which needs a handcart to push it about? Not for me, Robin!
I couldn't play it."
"I've got an old mandoline," observed Dave of Doncaster. "I could
teach Allan to pluck a few notes out of that."
Robin shook his head vigorously. "Wrong period," he said. "Folk
didn't sing Alabama coon songs in those days. Don't worry, Allan;
we'll cut out the gold and silver harp. It would cost a term's
pocket-money, anyhow."
Came next a brisk bout of conundrums, riddles, and rhymes, covering two
foolscap sheets in Robin's small, neat handwriting. The novelty of
these airy trifles was that they had nothing to do with the sportive
days of Robin Hood. They actually concerned Foxenby School itself,
being of a saucily personal character which made the Merry Men first
gape and then laugh loudly.
"I shall ask you, David of Doncaster," said Robin, "'Why should Rooke's
House and Holbeck's House always be able to work together?' You will
scratch your head and look silly----"
"Easy part," murmured Will Scarlet, in between.
"And then give it up," went on Robin, ignoring the interruption.
"After that I shall say, 'You don't know why Rooke's House and
Holbeck's House should always be able to work together? Why, because
there's a Forge in one house, and a lot of bright sparks in the other.'"
"I don't see that," said Little John, rubbing his chin.
He was the only one who didn't. All the rest voted it "ripping".
"But mayn't some Holbeckians think it rather a slur on their house,
Robin?"
"Out upon them for thin-skinned clowns if they do. There are hits at
both houses. To you, Little John, I shall put the conundrum--'Why do
Rooke's scholars need smoked glasses on prize distribution day?' Gaze
at me in puzzled fashion, and I'll answer--'So's they can Luke at
Harwood when he dazzles them with his brilliance'."
"Tophole!" was the general verdict.
"That's a smack at the other House which balances things," said David
of Doncaster.
"To me it seems rather a left-handed swipe," Will Scarlet commented.
"Almost as if Luke Harwood were swanking about with prizes under his
arm, you know."
"An it please him to put the cap on, let none say him nay," quoth
Robin. "I will hie me to the next item, which is a riddle in rhyme.
List, good my men:
"'Forlornly I flap in the tormenting breeze,
Out at the elbows and out at the knees.
Never before such a figure of fun--
See how I make all the little ones run!'"
"Why," said Little John, actually smiling, "anybody knows the answer to
that. It's a scarecrow."
"Of course," said a lot of the others.
"Wrong," said Robin. "Keep it dark, all you fellows, till the night of
the concert. The answer is 'Fluffy Jim'."
"The Village Idiot at the football match!" exclaimed Will Scarlet.
"Best of the bunch, I call that. Robin, old man, how in thunder did
you make them all up?"
"I didn't!" said Robin.
"Then who did?"
"That's telling. I'm not allowed to say."
"Whoever put them together was a clever guy."
"He _is_," agreed Robin, "but you'll never guess who, so don't try.
There's twenty-two of them in all and they ought to bring the house
down. But now, my stout fellows," he broke off, changing again to
old-time terms, "right worthily have ye gone through your parts, and I
have a mind to reward ye for it. In yonder pack of mine there are
sweet venison pasties and sundry cakes, with three pottles of humming
ale--ginger ale. If there be any amongst ye who cares not to feast on
such goodly fare, let him hang himself on yonder tree for the crows to
peck at."
Generous Robin! Few, if any, of his Merry Men guessed how short he
went of every other luxury in order to provide these tasty little
feasts in the shade of the Forest trees. Other boys had
hobbies--stamp-collecting, photography, painting--but Robin had none.
For a hobby that needed pocket-money could not live beside such
hospitality as Robin gave to his Merry Men. He let them assume that
most of the grub came in hampers from home--some of it certainly did,
but for the greater proportion Robin quietly paid at the Moston stores.
On logs tugged long ago to this particular spot, they sat in a rough
semi-circle round the fire, and fell to with hearty good will. Some
supplemented the viands from paper-bags held in reserve, and it seemed
a thousand pities that such a jovial little picnic was doomed to be
interrupted when the merriment was at its height. But interrupted it
was, and in a manner that was both startling and odious.
Suddenly--even more suddenly than showers come in April--there splashed
into the fire two jets of liquid, followed immediately by another and
yet another.
The fluid drenched the logs and sent up clouds of pungent smoke, making
their eyes smart and setting them coughing and sneezing.
Simultaneously there was the unmistakable clink of syringes against tin
pails, followed by smothered laughter and scampering feet.
With angry cries the Merry Men jumped from their logs and made away
from the reeking fire. The fumes had a strong suggestion of acid from
the laboratory, making the vicinity of the fire an unhealthy place to
stay in.
"Those caddish Squirms!" yelled Robin. "After them, my Merry Men,
after them!"
Yes, Robin--a long way after them! Those quick-heeled Squirms have
made the most of their start, and, run you never so fast in pursuit,
you will not catch them, not even be sharp enough to see the direction
they took. They have vanished mysteriously and your vengeance must
wait until another day.
"Marry come up, but they shall pay for this!" cried Robin, shaking his
fist furiously into space. "Ere this week has gone by there shall not
be a bone in the bodies of the Squirms that shall not ache, and ache
again, from the cudgelling we shall give them. Are ye agreed on it, my
Merry Men?"
"Ay, ay, Robin!" they cried, with deep and passionate sincerity.