CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



In the season of love what combats have we been 

 witness to — Umpire — between birds of prey! The 

 Female Falcon, she sat aloof like a sultana, in her 

 soft, sleek, glossy plumes, the iris in her eye of wilder, 

 more piercing, fiery, cruel, fascinating, and maddening 

 lustre, than ever lit the face of the haughtiest human 

 queen, adored by princes on her throne of diamonds. 

 And now her whole plumage shivers — and is ruffled — 

 for her own Gentle Peregrine appears, and they two 

 will enjoy their dalliance on the edge of the clifF- 

 chasm — and the Bride shall become a wife in that 

 stormy sunshine on the loftiest precipice of all these 

 our Alps. But a sudden sugh sweeps down from 

 heaven, and a rival Hawk comes rushing in his rage 

 from his widowed eyry, and will win and wear this his 

 second selected bride — for her sake, tearing, or to be 

 torn, to pieces. Both struck down from heaven, fall 

 a hundred fathom to the heather, talon -locked, in the 

 mutual gripe of death. Fair play, gentlemen, and 

 attend to the Umpire. It is, we understand, to be an 

 up-and-down fight. Allow us to disentangle you — and 

 without giving advantage to either — elbow-room to 

 both. Neither of you ever saw a human face so near 

 before — nor ever were captive in a human hand. 

 Both fasten their momentarily frightened eyes on us, 

 and, holding back their heads, emit a wild ringing 

 cry. But now they catch sight of each other, and in 

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