FLOUNDERS ARE WONDERFUL 



and buffy-brown, with a scattered handful of tur- 

 quoise circles and crescents, these becoming more 

 and more distinct with every foot of altitude. 



Only one metaphor was possible when I viewed 

 the peacock flounder in its own element from one 

 side close up as man to fish, — a flying carpet. The 

 design was that of some old Persian born of genera- 

 tions of feeling for color and pattern, woven with 

 a skill which only love of the work could initiate and 

 sustain, and finally leavened with the bloom of time 

 and usage. Even so, the aquatic tapestry was incom- 

 parable, for as I watched it turn and return in mid- 

 water, it changed tint and altered pattern in full 

 course, darkening as a cloud shadow passed, clear- 

 ing with the return of the sun. When it banked, 

 the pure white underside flashed out like snow on 

 grass. It swam past once more, and the surrounding 

 aura of parti-colored fins waved like the most deli- 

 cate of fringe — its motive power combining amaz- 

 ing efficiency of control with exceeding beauty of 

 pigment and grace of movement. Down each side 

 flowed an endless series of undulations, an adum- 

 bration far beneath the sea of what water is able 

 to achieve only in contact with air. 



As I watched, I seemed to detect a continual dis- 

 play of energy on the part of the crew of this flying 

 carpet. Just forward of amidships was a mast and 

 a sail, — an exceedingly active sail, which was be- 

 ing continually but slowly raised and lowered. It 

 was astonishing to see the mast stepped into place, 

 and then an unbelievably exact lateen sail, unfurled 



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