"That is because of my feet," sighed Lapwing. "I have no toes behind."
"Where do you sleep?" asked Magh.
"On the ground," answered Lapwing.
"That's so," declared Sa'-zada, "for the Natives of the East say that Titiri sleeps on his back, and holds up the sky with his feet."
"But why should the Men kill Birds for a few feathers?" croaked Vulture. "I don't believe it. Nobody asked me for one of mine. In fact the great trouble of all eating is the feathers or skin."
"Whe-eh-eh!" exclaimed Ostrich, disgustedly. "Pheu! your feathers! Even your head looks like a boiled Lobster. They do not kill me—the Men—but I know they are crazy for feathers, for they pull mine all out. Some day I'll give one of them a kick that will cure him of his feather fancy. I did rake one from beak to feet once with my strong toe nail. When I bring a foot up over my head and down like this——"
As Ostrich swung his leg every one skurried out of the way, for they knew it was like a sword descending.
"Yes," cried Magh, "if you only had a brain the size of that toe-nail——"
"Stop it!" cried Sa'-zada, for this was an unpleasant truth; Ostrich, though such a huge fellow himself, has a brain about the size of a Humming Bird's.
"Talking of Wives," said Ostrich, with the most extraordinary irrelevance, "mine died when I was twenty-seven years old; and, of course, as it is the way with us Birds, I never took up with another, though I've seen the most beautifully feathered ones of our Kind—quite enough to make one's mouth water.