e read therein of many unmoral
romances and pretty fancies, which, since he was a small boy, held
little meaning for him, or charm, beyond a delight in the swing of the
rhythm, for Johnny had a feeling for music. It was when he read of Robin
Hood, the bold Robin Hood, with his dubious ethics but his certain and
unquenchable interest, that Johnny Trumbull became intent. He had the
volume in his own room, being somewhat doubtful as to whether it might
be of the sort included in the good-boy role. He sat beside a rainwashed
window, which commanded a view of the wide field between the Trumbull
mansion and Jim Simmons's house, and he read about Robin Hood and his
Greenwood adventures, his forcible setting the wrong right; and for the
first time his imagination awoke, and his ambition. Johnny Trumbull,
hitherto hero of nothing except little material fistfights, wished now
to become a hero of true romance.

In fact, Johnny considered seriously the possibility of reincarnating,
in his own person, Robin Hood. He eyed the wide green field dreamily
through his rain-blurred window. It was a pretty field, waving with
feathery grasses and starred with daisies and buttercups, and it was
very fortunate that it happened to be so wide. Jim Simmons's house was
not a desirable feature of the landscape, and looked much better several
acres away. It was a neglected, squalid structure, and considered a
disgrace to the whole village. Jim was also a disgrace, and an unsolved
problem. He owned that house, and somehow contrived to pay the taxes
thereon. He also lived and throve in bodily health in spite of evil
ways, and his children were many. There seemed no way to dispose finally
of Jim Simmons and his house except by murder and arson, and the village
was a peaceful one, and such measures were entirely too strenuous.

Presently Johnny, staring dreamily out of his window, saw approaching a
rusty-black umbrella held at precisely the wrong angle in respect of the
storm, but held with the unvarying stiffness with which a soldier might
hold a bayonet, and knew it for his uncle Jonathan's umbrella. Soon he
beheld also his uncle's serious, rain-drenched face and his long ambling
body and legs. Jonathan was coming home from the post-office, whither
he repaired every morning. He never got a letter, never anything except
religious newspapers, but the visit to the post-office was part of his
daily routine. Rain or shine, Jonathan Trumbull went for the mo