Leather Robin Hood Hat

Less than a week into his new career in the greenwood, Robin was starting to think he'd made a serious mistake.  He hadn't bargained for gloomy caves, dank, dripping trees, and mud, mud. His old castle had been drafty, sure, but the winds blew through Sherwood like a runaway horse. The men just sat around their smoky little fires, drinking, mildewed hoods over their faces. They didn't hold up rich travelers; they just snuck along behind and hoped one of them dropped a purse or a ring. So far, they hadn't scored so much as a sandwich. Plainly, bold leadership was needed.  "Men!" cried Robin. Twenty pale, listless faces looked up. "Hoods off, every last man of you. Time we showed some spirit! Now, who's got a needle and some thread?" Within days, word spread to Nottingham that the Sherwood Gang was on the rise, confident and fearless. "It's them bloody hats, me lord," said a dispirited soldier to the angry Sheriff, after their latest defeat. "They come a-whoopin' out o' the trees at us,