Flying-fish knelt before the smoldering ashes and fanned briskly with his fins.
A tiny thread of smoke curled upward, and a feeble red glow could be seen in the ashes.
When the tribe of fishes saw this, they crowded close around Flying-fish, keeping their backs toward the cold wind. He told them to go to the other side, because he wanted to fan the fire.
By and by the spark grew into a flame, and the bonfire burned brightly.
"Bring more wood," cried Flying-fish.
The fishes gathered wood and piled it upon the fire. The red flames roared, and sputtered, and crackled.
"We shall soon be warm now," said Fin-fin.
Then the fishes crowded around the fire, closer and closer. Suddenly a blast of wind swept across the cliff from the direction of the land, and blew the fire toward the fishes.
They sprang back, forgetting that they were on the edge of the cliff. And down, down, down, went the whole fish tribe to the bottom of the sea.
The water felt warm, for the strong wind had driven the fire down below, too.