164 THE STARFISH’S STORY.

So he had to do without his meal that time, and the little
flying-fishes escaped; only one was snapped up by a white
sea-gull which pounced on it and swallowed it as it was
darting over the waves.

Presently one of them passed by just over the starfish as
he lay on the water.

“Do you call yourself a bird, or what?” he called to it.

“Dear, dear!” panted the flying-fish, dropping down
again. “I wish I wasa bird. But the fact is I am, yet I am
not. Birds can swim in the air—they call it flying—and so
can I. Well, but fishes can fly through the water—we call it
swimming—and so can I; so I must be a bird—because I can
fly, and a fish because I can swim—don’t you think so? I
leave you to settle it. Oh dear me! “Here comes one of those
tunnies after me again! There’s no peace anywhere! Well,
I can fly and he can’t—that is one comfort!”

And away he went for another flight as gaily as possible.
His life was happy enough after all—and if he was one of those
people who like excitement, he certainly had it.

“The flying-fish must be a bird that is not a bird!” said
the starfish. ‘Three questions an-
swered—and I never thought I should
have found out one! This encourages
me to look for a plant that is not a
a plant. Plants grow on roots at the
2 : bottom of the sea; I must sink down

i ®: “ff as low as possible to find them.”

It was so far down to the sandy sea-
bed that it took the starfish a long while to reach it, although
he had nothing to do but let himself go.

Oh, what an exquisite garden the sea had, hidden away
down below! There were carpets of starry flowers—some red,

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