They have had
half-a-dozen consultations about how the hawk is to be prepared for
the morning's sport. Old Nimrod, as usual, has always got in a pet,
upon which Master Simon has invariably given up the point, observing,
in a good-humoured tone, "Well, well, have it your own way, Christy;
only don't put yourself in a passion;" a reply which always nettles
the old man ten times more than ever.
HAWKING.
The soaring hawk, from fist that flies,
Her falconer doth constrain
Some times to range the ground about
To find her out again;
And if by sight or sound of bell,
His falcon he may see,
Wo ho! he cries, with cheerful voice--
The gladdest man is he.
--_Handful of Pleasant Delites_.
At an early hour this morning, the Hall was in a bustle preparing for
the sport of the day. I heard Master Simon whistling and singing under
my window at sunrise, as he was preparing the jesses for the hawk's
legs, and could distinguish now and then a stanza of one of his
favourite old ditties:
"In peascod time, when hound to horn
Gives note that buck be kill'd;
And little boy, with pipe of corn,
Is tending sheep a-field," &c.
A hearty breakfast, well flanked by cold meats, was served up in the
great hall.
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