These hawks my aged friend had often himself seen, in his own boyish
days, sweeping round the cliffs and over the broad expanse of the
Susquehanna. They were easily distinguished, he said, by the
residents of that district, by their peculiar size and plumage, being
of a breed not known to our native ornithology, and both being males.
For many years, it was affirmed,--long after the outlaw had vanished
from the scene,--these gallant old rovers of the river still pursued
their accustomed game, a solitary pair, without kindred or
acquaintance in our woods. They had survived their master,--no one
could tell how long,--but had not abandoned the haunts of his exile.
They still for many a year saw the wilderness beneath their daily
flight giving place to arable fields, and learned to exchange their
wary guard against the Indian's arrow for a sharper watch of the
Anglo-Saxon rifle. Up to the last of their appearance the
country-people spoke of them as Talbot's hawks.
This is a summary of the story, as it was told to me. No inquiry
brought me any addition to these morsels of narrative. Who this
Talbot was,--what was his crime,--how long he lived in this cave, and
at what era,--were questions upon which the oracle of my tradition
was dumb.
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