Chapter 10

by Rudyard Kipling

　　Your tiercel’s too long at hack, Sire. He’s no eyass

　　But a passage-hawk that footed ere we caught him,

　　Dangerously free o’ the air. Faith! were he mine

　　(As mine’s the glove he binds to for his tirings)

　　I’d fly him with a make-hawk. He’s in yarak

　　Plumed to the very point—so manned so weathered....

　　Give him the firmament God made him for,

　　And what shall take the air of him?—Old Play[OLAY]