“Oh no,” said the woodpigeon. “They are too high up for that. You would not be able to climb so far, and you cannot fly as we birds do, for you are only a poor boy, and have no wings.”
“I wish I had wings,” said Tommy Smith. “Is it very nice to fly, Mr. Woodpigeon?”
“It is nicer than anything else in the whole world,” the woodpigeon answered. “Just fancy floating along high above everything, as if the air were water, and you were a boat. Only you go much quicker than a boat does, and sometimes you need not use the oars at all.”
“Your wings are the oars, I suppose,” said Tommy Smith.
“Yes, indeed,” said the woodpigeon, “and how fast they row me along. Swish! swish! swish! and when I am tired I just spread them out and float along without using them. That is delightful. I call it resting on my wings.”
“It must be something like swinging, I think,” said Tommy Smith.
“Yes,” said the woodpigeon; “only you swing upon nothing, and you only swing forwards. Oh, how cool and fresh the air is, even on the hottest day in summer! The sun seems shining quite near to me, and the sky is like a great blue sea that I am swimming through; but oh, so quickly! quicker than any fish can swim. When I look up, I see great white ships with all their sails set. They are the clouds, and sometimes I am quite near them. How fast we go! We seem to be chasing each other. And when I look down, I see green islands far below me. Those are the tops of trees that I am flying over. My nest is in one of them, and I always know which one it is. When I am above it, I pause as a boat pauses on the crest of a wave, and then down, down, down I go, such a deep, cool, delicious plunge, till at last the leaves rustle round me, and I am sitting amongst the branches again, and cooing.”
“By your nest?” asked Tommy Smith.
“Oh yes; when I have one,” said the woodpigeon. “I have now, you know, because it is the springtime.”