If history is rightly called the practical illustration of philosophy, then the quarry-book may be considered with justice the tangible test of the falconer’s theories. In many cases a handful of experience is worth a cart-load of advice; and a trainer who has lost a valuable hawk by treating her in a bad way is not likely to forget in a hurry how bad that system proved. Some entertaining and very instructive anecdotes may be found scattered about in the old books, and more especially in that of Charles d’Arcussia, Lord of Esparron and Revest, the Italian who was falconer to Louis XIII., and was honoured by him with special favour. This treatise, which is difficult to procure, is well worth perusal, not only for the descriptions contained in it of remarkable flights, but for the sound sense of many of the precepts given. Between the French and Italian schools of falconry, as of fencing, a sort of friendly rivalry existed; and the Italian, who had become a Frenchman, may be said, in a way, to have represented both.

Coming to more modern times, a great many interesting details of a historical and anecdotal kind are given in the works already mentioned, published during the last fifty or sixty years, beginning with the fine illustrated volume of Schlegel and Wulverhorst, and including the new edition of Mr. J. E. Harting’s Hints. Without going over any of the ground covered by these writers, I propose to add a few notes of actual experiences within the memory of man. For most of these I am indebted to the kindness of brother-falconers, who have supplied them at some trouble to themselves, and whom I desire to thank heartily for their friendly aid.

The powers of a trained peregrine are severely tested by a first-rate house-pigeon, which is one of the fastest of flying things, shifts well, and lives usually in fine condition, taking ? 276 ? plenty of exercise. Adrian M?llen told me that a fellow-countryman of his, vilipending his passage hawks which he was then training for the campaign at herons at the Loo, offered to bet that three of his own pigeons would beat any hawk M?llen could produce. As the hawks were not M?llen’s, and it is always quite on the cards that a flight at a fast pigeon may result in the loss of the hawk, the falconer had to ask leave before accepting the bet. The king’s brother, who then represented the Loo Club in Holland, readily gave permission, and, I think, also offered to pay if the hawk lost. Anyhow, a day was fixed, and a small party assembled on the most open part of the Loo. The falconer had stipulated that he should give the signal for the release of the pigeons by the owner. His fastest falcon was then put on the wing, and as she waited on M?llen gave the word. The pigeon started; the hawk stooped, and, after a good flight, killed. She was allowed to eat the brain, and the rest of the pelt was thrown to the disconcerted fancier. A second pigeon was then prepared. The hawk again waited on, and the signal was again given. This time, however, the pigeon was taken at the first stoop. “Out with your third pigeon,” cried M?llen, elated with the double victory. But the countryman elected to pay, and not to play. “My third gold piece is lost anyhow,” he sadly remarked. “Better pay my money, and save my remaining pigeon, than find I have to lose both.”

The statement that a peregrine cutting down a grouse or partridge without binding kills it “stone-dead” in the air, is doubtless occasionally true. But to suppose that this is a common occurrence would be a great mistake. Much more often the partridge is stunned or dazed, the wing broken, or the back or neck dislocated. But the force with which a game-bird comes down when hit in the air is often very great, and enough in itself to almost fatally bruise it. I have mentioned that a falcon of Major Fisher’s knocked down a grouse on fairly level ground which, so great was the impact, rebounded from the earth, and came down again fifteen yards from the place where it first fell. Larks and other birds often dash themselves hard against the ground in shifting downwards from the stoop, and bound up again like balls.

Peregrines, when on their day and intent on killing, will sometimes do more execution than would readily be believed. Not very long ago a tiercel stooped at a covey, cut down a bird, and threw up with the intention of descending to seize the victim. But at the height to which his impetus had carried him up he ? 277 ? was right above the remainder of the covey, which was speeding away at a short distance above the ground. Changing his mind, therefore, the tiercel stooped again at one of the fugitives. He cut this down also, and shot up again, likewise over the retreating birds. For a second time the temptation proved too great, and with a third stoop he took a third partridge.

John Barr was flying a ger-tiercel at a pigeon on Epsom Downs, not far from Tattenham Corner. But the hawk was no match for the pigeon, which evaded all his stoops. Instead, however, of making off and thanking his lucky stars, this over-vain bird stayed fooling around. Confident that the ger would not or could not catch him, he sailed about, as if “chaffing” the big hawk and challenging him to do his worst. At this moment an amateur falconer came on the Downs by the Grand Stand, carrying a falcon (peregrine) of by no means first-rate powers, but keen to fly, and a good waiter on. Getting on to the open ground, this gentleman threw off his falcon. But neither he nor his falcon at first saw the pigeon, nor did the latter, intent on his game with the ger, espy the distant foe. Thus the hawk had time to get up some way before there was any suspicion on either side that there was sport to be had. As soon as the falcon did cast eyes on the inadvertent pigeon, she fortunately went up higher, instead of starting in pursuit, as some eyesses would have done. As she got to a pretty good pitch the pigeon at last became aware that there was a second enemy in the field, or rather in the air, and began to gird up his loins for flight in bitter earnest. It was, however, now too late. The falcon towered far above, and on the other side was the “allied power,” the ger. Another ten seconds and the falcon came down with a will, threw up, and at the second shot did for the too imprudent joker. The amateur had the laugh at John Barr for some days afterwards, having “wiped his ger’s eye” with a peregrine.

Mr. Riley, who has had so much success with the short-winged hawks, had thrown off a goshawk at a rabbit, which ran past some old hollow pollard ashes. As he passed, out jumped a fox and joined in the chase. This, however, boded no great good for the hawk; and her owner raised so unearthly a noise that reynard turned aside into the fence just as the goshawk took the rabbit only two or three yards away. On another occasion a rabbit was ferreted out by the side of a mill-pool. The ferret was close on his traces, and he jumped deliberately into the pool and swam across. Mr. Riley, who, like a good austringer, loves fair play above all things, thought it a shame to fly a wet rabbit, ? 278 ? and would not throw off his goshawk. However, when the rabbit was on dry land he went so well that Mr. Riley let the hawk go. The rabbit was caught; and when he was taken from the hawk he was found to be quite dry! But whether his wet skin had been dried up by terror or by the violence of his exertions, or how else, is a mystery still unsolved. One day, having had bad luck with partridges, Sir Tristram, owned and trained by the same gentleman, was indulged with a pigeon. The big pointer included in the party, and which was a great ally of the goshawk, was at the time roaming about. As the hawk was pluming the pigeon on the ground, the dog came romping along. But when he had accidentally got within eight yards of Sir Tristram, the latter left his meal, and, flying straight for the pointer, gave him a good sound box on the ear, which sent him flying, the hawk then returning, well satisfied, to his food.

Hawks have been known to kill quarry with a leash and swivel still attached to their jesses. I have known a merlin with a long leash on follow a lark up in rings several hundred feet high, but she could not get on terms with him. What is, however, perhaps still more astonishing, I have seen a merlin with a whole dead lark in her foot pursue and strike down one that was uninjured. I was with a friend in a very open place. Each of us had a merlin to fly; and we walked different ways. My chance came first; and the lark, after a flight of moderate length, was taken under some open railings surrounding a dry pond. Hardly was this flight over, and the hawk beginning to plume her lark, when my friend’s hawk started after a lark from the opposite side of the pond. This lark happened also to make for the same place—not that the railings were at all likely to save him, but because he thought he could dodge round and round the posts and under the bars, and so put off the fatal moment. Larks seem often to think that any shelter is better than none at all. Accordingly, round and round the rails this second lark twisted and turned, passing sometimes within a yard or two of the place where my hawk stood on her dead lark watching the fun. The other hawk meanwhile made shot after shot, but could not foot her quarry. “She”—that was the name of my merlin—looked on more and more excitedly. At last she could stand it no longer, but getting up, dead lark and all, she mounted a bit and stooped. As the lark was diving underneath a rail she hit it, first shot, with a resounding whack—not with her feet, for they were both encumbered by the dead quarry, but with the dead quarry itself! The lark was, of course, ? 279 ? not held, but projected forwards and downwards about three feet to the ground; and before he could get up again the other hawk was on him.

I was flying the same hawk in a very big stubble-field. A lark got up—a ground lark, but a fast one—and away they went, zigzagging along the surface of the field. They had gone a long way, but not far enough to be out of sight, when they both suddenly vanished. Running up, I found a deep depression in the ground, where years ago a big pit had been dug. This accounted for the disappearance. But what had happened after that? If the lark had been taken, where was he? And where was his captor? A small heap of dry sticks at the bottom of the hollow was searched in vain. There seemed to be no other hiding-place. At length a tiny hole was seen—the mouth of a rabbit-burrow. And out of this, in another half-minute, emerged the little hawk. The lark had gone in, and she after it, but after some groping about in the dark had failed to find the wily fugitive.

Only a few days afterwards the sister of this hawk started after a first-rate ringing lark. Both of them went out of sight, drifting at a great height towards a village a mile off. We ran towards it at our best pace, fearing some disaster; but when half-way to it saw the hawk coming back to the lure. Well, we were glad enough that she had not killed in any cottage garden, and, taking her back up-wind, went on with the day’s programme. As it was getting dark we had to walk through the same village on the way home. “Did you find your ’awk?” asked a cottager. “What hawk?” "Why, one of your ’awks chased a lark into the passage o’ th’ public there, and would a\' caught ’im too, only there was a cat in the passage up and grabbed the lark before the ’awk was on ’im; and the ’awk looked as savage as thunder, and ’ooked it out, and went over there where you come from."

Bee Cottage stands desolate in a very big valley, with hills sloping gradually down to it o............