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The story of a Black Kite.



My first care was to encourage my kite to free himself from

the swarming vermin which infested him, and I was delighted to see

how diligently he bathed and preened himself. The Falconer of the

Old Hawking Club came to my help, showed me how to fasten jesses,

provided a block, and encouraged me to believe that my “ ugly

duckling ” would presently turn into a “ swan.” I am afraid that he

was the only person who thought so.


The moult—that blessed provision of Nature for righting

wrongs done to plumage—was not long in coming, and little by

little produced a change for the better. He assumed adult plumage,

and one day, after being away from home for a fortnight, coming

suddenly round a corner I saw him spread two splendid wings and a

broad, slightly forked tail, and realised that I was looking at a

beautiful creature. “ Taffy,” so called from his characteristic habit

of “borrowing” handkerchiefs, dusters, and the like (“where the

kite breeds, look out for lesser linen ”), became a charming pet.

Tame and fearless, he could safely be handled, and his poses and

attitudes w 7 ere a joy to see. A very favourite one was “the Church

lectern,” when he stood on his block with wings half spread, gener¬

ally after his bath ; or he would lie flat on the grass, his wings fully

spread, sunning himself until he panted with open beak. He roosted

on a low branch of a large ilex, and after jumping off on the wrong

side and being left dangling a few times, he learnt how to avoid

that most unpleasant experience. He even made a game of it, w T ould

let himself go and swing head dowmvard seemingly helpless, some¬

how 7 right himself with a back somersault, and fly back to the bough.

His wild, “ shivering ” cry w r as most musical, and as he grew in age

he grew in beauty, and acquired that exquisite bloom which is only

seen w 7 hen birds are in the pink of health and condition.


Now and again he escaped through mischance or carelessness

in fastening the leash, but he never went far, and everybody knew

him, and either brought him home or told his friends where to find

him. Probably he could have been trained to fly to hack, but the

forest is too thickly wooded to make the experiment worth trying

with a valued bird, and “ Taffy’s ” excursions were not encouraged.


The only time he was really upset was when someone took

him to see my Eagle Owls. One look was enough for “ Taffy,” and



