At Close Range 



like an eagle's. There was something noble in 

 his poise, in his challenging eye, in the forward 

 thrust of his fierce head ; but the spell was broken 

 at the first step. He moved awkwardly, unwill- 

 ingly it seemed; his great curving talons inter- 

 fered with his footing when he touched the earth. 



This time, instead of a rifle, there was a trim 

 shotgun across my knees. The hawk was mine 

 whether he stood quiet or leaped into swift flight, 

 and feeling sure of him now I watched awhile, 

 wondering whether he would break up his game 

 with his claws, as some owls do, or tear it to 

 pieces with his hooked beak. For a moment he 

 did neither, but stood splendidly alert over his 

 kill. Once he turned his head completely around 

 over either shoulder, sweeping his piercing glance 

 over me, but seeing nothing unusual. Then he 

 seized his game in one foot and struck his beak 

 into the breast, making the feathers fly as he laid 

 the delicate flesh open. When I found myself 

 weakening, growing sentimental at the thought 

 that it was his last meal, his last taste of freedom 

 and the wild, I remembered the grouse and got 

 quietly on my feet. Though busy with his feast, 

 he caught the first shadow of a motion ; I can still 

 see the gleam in his wild eyes as he sprang aloft. 



I thought him beyond all harm as he lay on his 

 back, one outstretched wing among the feathers 



[219] 



