between their shoulders, until, from the back, you shall judge one a humpbacked old witch and a thing of evil.
A vulgar relation.
King Sam, with all his majesty, must take exercise sometimes—usually after the royal bath. Whereat all other birds avoid his path, and hide in unconsidered corners. Sam's exercise is a devastating rush, comprehending all this inclosure, without consideration for trees, or shrubs, or birds, or rocks, or water. He merely sweeps through all, in strides of many yards, with outstretched neck, and wings a-spread and gorgeous in black and scarlet. This for some five stormy minutes, and with again and again a "Kra-a-ak."
A thing of evil.
One only among the flamingo nobility retains, in this climate, a pink flush over all his outer feathers; and he, good soul, is subject to rheumatism or some similar affliction wherefore he limps painfully until Church, the keeper, anoints his legs with oil, and is an object of small consideration among the plebeian gulls and ducks about him; for wherein is the grandeur of rheumatic legs, even when so many times as long as thick?
Sam's exercise.
And so, in a quiet corner, he stands, with a special pail of refreshment within beak-reach, and nurses his affliction. And smaller birds, with a certain timorous impudence—for he has still a fearsome beak, which will reach a long way—trot up and pretend to sympathize with him. You have only to look at them to read all they are saying. They suggest all sorts of treatment, just as people do to human rheumatics. They begin by suggesting reasonable remedies, and, growing bolder by reason of impunity and the titters of their friends, venture upon impertinence. That little ruff who has just escaped the big beak probably suggested the process of standing on his head and giving his legs a rest, or something equally savouring of errand-boy wit.
There are two wicked old herons who offer advice with ulterior designs. They assume a sympathetic and soothing demeanour and approach together. They inquire anxiously for
