The second morning found White Wing far out at sea once more, straining his eyes for the island where he was to get food and water, and cherishing to himself but one idea—to reach the great Emperor who wanted a white flamingo.
After many days and nights of lonely travel, he came to a mountain solid green and black, with palms and forest trees; where there were no white shores, but a heavy marshy line of wonderful vegetation. And from the height at which he flew he could discern the muddy strip of river water which stained the blue sapphire of the ocean. This, then, was the river, and far up its course must be the mountains and the city of the great Emperor.
He was right in his conjectures. For a black bird, with a yellow bill as big as a cleaver, greeted him with familiar and jovial laughter, and told him that he was indeed on the right path. This bird was a toucan and he told many things of his family to White Wing, adding much good advice. He was distressed that the beautiful stranger would not eat bananas, and explained that he owed his good health to an exclusive fruit diet.
"But then," he admitted with a noisy laugh, "somebody must eat the fish, I'm sure. And I'm glad if you like them."
Also this happy-go-lucky toucan volunteered to guide White Wing on his flight up the valley. But, like so many guides, he fell out before he accomplished all that he had promised. For scarcely had the two traveled a day's journey when they came upon a prodigious growth of wild figs, and the greedy toucan would go no farther.
Those were hard hours for poor White Wing. The river valley was dark and hot, and in the night he was perpetually wakened by the startling sounds around him. Such noisy parrots he had never dreamed of, nor such millions of burning insects that flashed and flashed their lanterns till the heavy vines and palm leaves seemed afire with them. And the screams of terror that rose from the dark depths of the forest when the great cats or the powerful snakes seized their prey, chilled his blood.
But the days brought him at last to higher ground, and finally to a wonderful plain where it all seemed but so many miles of lawn and clear smooth waters. He took heart. Suddenly the mountains came in sight. Yes, and one of them was sending out a thin stream of smoke into the cloudless sky. Another day, possibly that very night, he would reach the city of the Emperor.
Very wisely he waited for the dawn. He had seen the high walls, and the housetops, and the glittering armaments of the palace as they glowed in the sunset, and he had heard strange music, a sweet confusion of lovely sounds. But from the cliffs above the river he watched and waited and preened his beautiful white suit.
When morning came, just as the mountains were pink and the city was cool and gray, a grand procession mounted a great rock above the Emperor's palace. Trains of slaves and priests there were, the sounds of drums, and a heavy, solemn chanting. The Emperor was to greet the sun and they were all to worship the great light, for it was their deity.
Then White Wing soared high above them all. His great white form was suddenly thrown against the rising sun, and it was beautiful beyond comparison. No living bird had ever seemed so lovely. He could see the crowds of men and women and the ranks of priests start back in one motion of surprise. Then he floated down, slowly and with great calm, alighting on the stone altar where the Emperor was staring upward in amaze.