ublesome
environments of the present and transport me to better times and
pleasanter scenes.

Aha! how many times have I walked with brave Robin in Sherwood forest!
How many times have Little John and I couched under the greenwood tree
and shared with Friar Tuck the haunch of juicy venison and the pottle
of brown October brew! And Will Scarlet and I have been famous friends
these many a year, and if Allen-a-Dale were here he would tell you that
I have trolled full many a ballad with him in praise of Maid Marian's
peerless beauty.

Who says that Sherwood is no more and that Robin and his merry men are
gone forever! Why, only yesternight I walked with them in that
gracious forest and laughed defiance at the doughty sheriff and his
craven menials. The moonlight twinkled and sifted through the boscage,
and the wind was fresh and cool. Right merrily we sang, and I doubt not
we should have sung the whole night through had not my sister, Miss
Susan, come tapping at my door, saying that I had waked her parrot and
would do well to cease my uproar and go to sleep.

Judge Methuen has a copy of Bishop Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English
Poetry" that he prizes highly. It is the first edition of this noble
work, and was originally presented by Percy to Dr. Birch of the British
Museum. The Judge found these three volumes exposed for sale in a
London book stall, and he comprehended them without delay--a great
bargain, you will admit, when I tell you that they cost the Judge but
three shillings! How came these precious volumes into that book stall
I shall not presume to say.

Strange indeed are the vicissitudes which befall books, stranger even
than the happenings in human life. All men are not as considerate of
books as I am; I wish they were. Many times I have felt the deepest
compassion for noble volumes in the possession of persons wholly
incapable of appreciating them. The helpless books seemed to appeal to
me to rescue them, and too many times I have been tempted to snatch
them from their inhospitable shelves, and march them away to a pleasant
refuge beneath my own comfortable roof tree.

Too few people seem to realize that books have feelings. But if I know
one thing better than another I know this, that my books know me and
love me. When of a morning I awaken I cast my eyes about my room to
see how fare my beloved treasures, and as I cry cheerily to them,
"Good-day to you, sweet friends!" how lovingly they bea