40 BEAUTIFUL) BIRDS 
wings above their backs, stretch out their emerald 
necks, bow their yellow heads politely to each other, 
and shoot up their golden feather-fountains, making 
each of the long, plumy tufts tremble and vibrate and 
quiver, as they droop all over them and almost cover 
them up. The plumes begin from under the wings— 
that is why they lift their wings up first so that they 
can shoot straight up and so that the hen birds may 
see the little stripes of red, which I told you about, 
and which look like little crimson clouds floating in 
a little golden sunset. How beautiful they must 
look! Perhaps there may be a dozen Great Birds of 
Paradise, all bowing their heads and quivering their 
plumes, on a dozen branches of the tree, whilst a 
dozen more will be flying about from one branch to 
another, so that the tree and the air are full of beauty. 
The air never had anything to float upon her softer 
or lovelier than those golden floating plumes, and no 
tree ever bore blossoms guwite so beautiful as those 
wonderful golden Paradise-flowers, And both the 
air and the trees are happy. Both of them whisper, 
“Oh thank you, thank you, Birds of Paradise.” Of 
course the Birds of Paradise are happy too. They 
are happy to have such beauty and to be able to 
show it to the hens, who sit hidden in the trees and 
bushes around, and shey perhaps—the hens for whom 
it is all done—are happiest of all. Then it is all 
