It was, I remember, upon a Saturday afternoon that I was again asked
to tell a tale of Robin Hood. On this, the last day of our week of
seclusion, how great were the pleasures of our half-holiday! Frequently
we had permission granted us to stroll among the fields in the
neighbourhood; in the spring time, to gather the bright yellow primrose,
or search for the nests of the poor innocent birds; and, in the autumn
season, to pluck the delicious blackberries that, in some places,—and we
knew them well,—abounded among the thorny hedges.
At about the distance of a quarter of a mile from our old school-house
there was an extensive park. Many hundred acres of land were covered with
fine trees—oaks, elms, and firs, variously intermixed—while here and
there were open lawns, clothed only with grass and the beautiful wild
flowers, that spring up, unnurtured, in their native soil. An ancient
mansion stood in the midst, upon the summit of a hill, whence, looking
over the woods, the face of the country for miles around could be traced
as upon a map. The house was deserted—the owner resided in a foreign
land, and his noble English park was neglected: it had once been paled
round, but in many places the wooden staves were broken, and a gap made,
through which every passenger might enter. We often did, and chased each
other among the crowded thickets; and now, glad of the opportunity of
escaping from our confined play-ground, we repaired to this delightful
park, where, seated upon the grass, with my companions lying around me, I
told them the tale of