The wonderful adventures and the long, beneficent reign¹ of Prince Flamingo² are matters which would be lost to the world were it not for the venerable Mrs. Leatherback.  
For Mrs. Leatherback is not only the oldest and the largest of the great turtles, but she is by all odds³ the most distinguished⁴, and is gifted with the most accurate power of memory. And her adventures in the five hundred years of her life have been many. She swims the great Gulf⁵ from coast to coast, she knows the islands—every one of them—she has been far up the rivers which pour their floods into the tropic seas, and every bay and lagoon⁶ knows her presence. And there is no one whose arrival is more eagerly welcomed by the little people of the lagoons⁷ and the coral coves⁸ than she. For with her vast knowledge goes a power of recital⁹ which charms her auditors¹⁰; and if she chances to spend a moonlight evening by some quiet swamp, or beneath a pleasant sand dune¹¹ where the breeze is good and the outlook charming, you may be sure that the intelligent and conservative members of society, such as the Cranes, the Terrapins¹², the Black Swans, and perhaps one of the wise Foxes, will be gathered around the distinguished visitor.
 
And her stories, notably¹³ that of Prince Flamingo, have gone far inland, even to the remote North; for the Heron is himself a great traveler, and it is, indeed, as he has presented the story, rather than in the words of Mrs. Leatherback, that it is generally related. Perhaps it has gained something in its travels, for time and distance lend a charm, and the coral islands are beautiful in perspective. To put it simply, you remember what the wise old Mr. Rat said as he nibbled¹⁴ the Dutch cheese: "The best things come from a long way off."
 
So it is from a remote past, and from the most lonely and most beautiful of the tropic islands that the romance of the beautiful white flamingo has traveled down to us.
 
There is a great lagoon or inlet of the sea which widens itself into a vast marsh¹⁵ on the southernmost extremity¹⁶ of an island. Ships could never enter its shallow waters, and it is protected on the land side by miles of dense¹⁷ reeds and water growth. No place in the world could be safer for the city of the flamingoes. And of all birds, the great, pink flamingoes need a secret place to build their nests and rear their young.
 
Their wonderful city was populous¹⁸ with thousands of their kind on the beautiful morning when this particular little flamingo was born. For never had a hunter penetrated¹⁹ to their home, and their natural enemies were few.
 
Great flocks of flamingoes were wheeling in long, curving lines overhead. And they were so pink against the early morning sky that you would have thought them the reflection of the rosy²⁰ dawn itself. And almost as far across the lagoon as one could see, they were standing²¹ by their nests feeding their babies, or preparing for flight to the distant feeding grounds. You could see nothing but their tall, red forms, thousands of curving necks, and wide, beautiful wings.
 
Everybody was talking, and the confusion would have been terrible except for the fact that no one seemed to pay any attention to anybody else, and each beautiful flamingo seemed to know exactly what he was about. Hundreds of other babies were being hatched that morning, and so little White Wing (as they called him at first) attracted no attention. His mother was in a great state of delight over him, of course, and his stately father eyed him with approval. But hundreds of other parents were in the same state of mind over their young, and congratulations had long gone out of fashion.
 
 
 
The beautiful young father had just arrived from the distant shore and was the first to feed the pretty youngster. He curved his graceful²² neck downward and when he kissed the baby, as you might say, it was to put into his tiny mouth the wonderful juice of the shell fish which the great bird had been eating. While he did this the mother preened²³ her feathers, and took a few stately steps to stretch her legs, for she had been all night on the nest, and then she wheeled in a wonderful circle over the lagoon, mounting higher and higher until at last she was in line with many flamingoes who were heading with tilted²⁴ wings against the wind, on their way to the beaches and sand-bars.
 
The sun grew very hot and the wind died away. The waters of the lagoon flashed in the burning light, and the heat was terrible. But over the nests where the babies lay the tall birds threw their shadows, and again and again little White Wing was turned over in his bed, and he was given innumerable feedings. So at last, when the sun went down and the air grew cool, he was surprisingly different from what he had been in the morning. He was already larger, and his wings and his feet were getting strength enough so that he could move, and he had found a little voice of his own.
 
With successive days he grew apace, and at last he tumbled himself out of the nest and began to walk. The nest was a mound²⁵ of mud and sand, for all the world like a basket of sticks and moss²⁶ reposing²⁷ on an inverted²⁸ flower-pot, and not so high but what White Wing could struggle back into it when the heat of the day came and his watchful²⁹ father took his post by the side of the little home to throw the shadow of his stately figure over it.
 
At first White Wing was just like the other little flamingoes, and with them he began to play on the sandy floor of the flamingo city, and with them he very soon learned to take short flights as his wings developed. But just as a hundred or so of cousins began to shed their white down and to grow very brown and fuzzy, he began to get whiter and whiter. In a few weeks they were beginning to shed their brown clothes for the beautiful pink feathers which are the proper thing for the flamingo.
 
Little White Wing was somewhat distressed³⁰ when his playmates began to jeer³¹ at him, and it was perplexing to note a lack of affection on the part of his beautiful father and mother. For his elders were greatly embarrassed. Nothing like this had ever happened in their family. And, so far as the handsome father could learn by inquiry³² among the oldest birds of Flamingotown, no one had ever heard of a white flamingo. But when the neighbors cast aspersions, and hinted that there must be some common blood in that family, then the father grew angry and the gentle mother had all she could do to keep him from killing³³ little White Wing.
 
Every night the little fellow would bury his head close to his beautiful mother's ear, and say:
 
"Don't you think, perhaps, dear mother, that I'll be pink in the morning?"
 
And she would tell him to hush³⁴ and be quiet and go to sleep.
 
But when morning came he would be as white as ever, and his long sad day would begin. No one would play with him and he was soon shifting for himself. Somehow he picked up a living of tiny fish in the long pools of tide-water that the waves left in the soggy lagoon, and when all his playmates had gone to bed and it was safe to come among them, he would step home, picking his way between the nests, and trying to reach his own without calling attention to himself.
 
All this was hard, but it speedily grew worse. The King of the flamingoes said that the white offspring must die.
 
"Begone, my child, begone!" the mother whispered to him, for she had heard that little White Wing was to die. "Go away, as far as you can. Sometime it will be all right. Remember that your mother loves you."
 
So that ended White Wing's childhood. Even before the first streak³⁵ of dawn, the beautiful young bird flew out and away. Across the lagoon, miles and miles to the westward³⁶, over a wide stretch of sea he flew until his wings could hardly bear him up. Then he sighted land, and he strained eve............