“When we were back in the old familiar spot there were grave discussions about the nests. None of us wished to build new nests if the old ones would do, but some collections of nests were held to be in bad condition, and in one of these blocks my mother’s nest was set. So those who had to rebuild moved down the edge of the lagoon, and were soon busy scraping up mud and rushes. I helped a little, but I did not mate. My feathers were only beginning to turn pink, my bill had hardly acquired a proper curve, and no flamingo is satisfied with his appearance until his beak is longer than his head. I was too young to find a companion, and stayed happily enough by the new nest, or waded into the lagoon with unattached companions of my own year, and had a pleasant, idle time.
“Unfortunately, the nesting season was a failure in our district. The other nesting areas did well enough, but some snakes attacked ours, capturing a number of eggs and some of the first hatched birds. There was no delay. We left the nests and started away to another water, a separate pack. The rest of the old pack was busy rearing young, the snakes did not attack them, so they stayed and we went, under the guidance of a very old bird who was one of the best leaders in the flamingo community.
“When we arrived at a safe place, where water and mud were to be found in abundance, it was too late to build nests. A few birds laid late eggs on the ground, but nothing was hatched, and we moped till moulting time and through it with never a newborn bird in our company. I moulted and secured a new crop of feathers, not very bright, not to be compared with the plumage of birds that were seven years old or more, but still much better than the dingy white and dull brown feathers with which I had been forced to content myself in times past. I found myself better able to fly, and though I have never been quick to rise in the air and get away, I have never known fatigue, and, indeed, in the following spring, when I proposed to a charming bird of my own age whose plumage was not quite so glossy as my own, I was able to fascinate her by my graceful movements in the air, by the ease with which I turned and twisted with wings spread, neck thrust straight out, and feet stretching as far behind me as they could go. My first attempt at nest-making was not altogether a success—our one egg addled—but perhaps it was as well. We were very young and might have made bad parents.”
He paused, and sought for consolation in the depths of the muddy water.
“And then?” queried the Swan.
“The autumn brought the hunting man,” said the Flamingo sadly, “and that’s why I’m here. They’ve clipped my wings; I can’t fly. The air is chill, and cold, and dirty. I’ll never grow good plumage again. I know there is food enough and shelter for bad weather, and companionship of a kind, but I want the African sun, and the tropical streams and forests, and the wild free life, and——”
“It’s no good, my friend,” interrupted the Swan. “You want too much. Be satisfied that you are still alive. Better be a live flamingo in Regent’s Park than a dead one in Central Africa.”
So saying he sailed away to the middle of the pond. The wigeon followed. But the Flamingo, standing on one leg, looked steadily through the misty air as though he could see in the far distance the land of his heart’s desire.
| [1] | Microparra capensis. |