It was all very wonderful to young Robin when he saw Little John or
one of the other men let fly an arrow with a twang of the
bow-string and a sharp whizz of the wings through the air, to
quiver in a mark eighty or a hundred yards away, or to pierce some
flying wild goose or duck passing in a flock high in air; but by
degrees that which had seemed so marvellous soon ceased to astonish
him, and at last looked quite easy.

For Robin was delighted with his bow and arrows as soon as he found
that he could send one of the light-winged shafts whistling in a
beautiful curve to stick in some big tree.

Then he began shooting at smaller trees, and then at saplings when
he could hit the small trees. But the saplings were, of course,
much more difficult. One day though, he went back to Little John
in triumph to tell him that he had shot at a young oak about as
thick as his wrist.

"But you didn't hit it?" said the big fellow, smiling.

"I just scratched one side of it though," cried the boy.

"Did you now? Well done! You keep on trying, and you'll beat me
some day."

"I don't think I shall," said Robin, shaking his head thoughtfully.

"Oh! but you will if you keep on trying. A lad who tries hard can
do nearly anything."