‘Every one flies in his own way!’ said father-stork. ‘The swans go in slanting line, the cranes in a triangle, and the plovers in a wavy, snake-like line.’
‘Don’t mention serpents when we are flying up here!’ said mother-stork; ‘it only excites the appetites of our young ones when they can’t be satisfied.’
* * * * * *
‘Are those the high mountains down there which I have heard of?’ asked Helga in the swan’s skin.
‘Those are thunder-clouds which drive below us,’ said the mother.
‘What are those white clouds which lift themselves so high?’ asked Helga.
‘Those are the everlasting snow-clad hills which you see,’ said the mother; and they flew over the Alps, down towards the blue Mediterranean.
* * * * * *
‘Land of Africa! Coast of Egypt!’ jubilantly sang the daughter of the Nile in her swan form, when, high in the air, she descried her native land, like a yellowish white, undulating streak.
And as the birds saw it, they hastened their flight.