144 THE RED KITE. 



The bauld Pitcur fell in a fur, 



And Clavers got a clankie, 0, 

 Or I had fed an A thole gled 



On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 0." 



Although it is not found in Fifeshire to my knowledge, I 

 could not pass by without remark, the type of the paper kites of 

 our boyhood, which, with "weeby" tail, paper feathers, and 

 lengthened string, we used to fly with such glee (and, after many 

 a fall,) and so proudly admired, when, like the living bird, they 

 soared and calmly settled aloft — hanging for hours, like their 

 living prototype, resting on air. How many of those who see the 

 paper toys hovering over the parks of London on fine summer 

 days have any idea that the bird from which they derive their 

 name used to float all day in hot weather over the heads of their 

 ancestors *? It was formerly so abundant in the streets of London 

 that visitors from the Continent, four hundred years ago, made 

 notes of their surprise at its numbers and familiarity. A learned 

 writer, in an article upon the Bohemian Embassy to England 

 four hundred years ago, supposes that " Milvi," in SchasseWs 

 Journal, must have been a mistake for " Cygni," as London had 

 always been celebrated for swans ; but other old writers leave 

 no room for doubt that the kite was the most familiar bird with 

 the citizens of old London. It was much more plentiful than 

 jackdaws or pigeons are with us now ; and the many allusions 

 which Shakespeare makes to it were doubtless made from 

 personal experience ; for instance, Macbeth's exclamation when 

 he sees the ghost of Banquo — 



" See there ! behold ! look ! lo ! how say you? 

 Why, what care I ? If thou canst nod, speak too — 

 If charnel-houses, and our graves, must send 

 Those that we bury, back, our monuments 

 Shall be the maivs of kites." 



This horrible picture no doubt is taken from his seeing the kites 

 gobbling up the carrion in the streets of London. 



And when Macduff is told of the murder of his wife and 

 children by Macbeth, how tellingly he introduces the kite — 



" He has no children. All my pretty ones? 

 Did you say all ? O, hell-kite ! All ? 

 What ! all my pretty chickens and their dam 

 At one fell swoop ? " 



What a use for the London scavenger — to gobble up the offal 

 of hell ! He makes Hamlet also bitterly exclaim — 



" But I am pigeon-1 iver'd, and lack gall 

 To make oppression bitter ; or, ere this, 



