84 BEAUTIFUL BIRDS 
be blue instead of rose or crimson or gold, then it 
would be a blue sunset; and that is what the sunset 
is like that the Blue Bird of Paradise looks out of, 
when he spreads out his plumes, just as the sunset 
that the Red Bird of Paradise looks out of, when he 
spreads out Ais plumes, is like a red sunset—only of 
feathers, of course. One is a blue feather-sunset, 
and the other a red feather-sunset. 
And how soft those feathers are, those wonderful, 
blue sunset-feathers of the wonderful Blue Bird of 
Paradise. Oh, I cannot tell you how softly they 
droop down over his breast, or how softly—how very 
softly—each feather touches the other one, upon it. 
How softly, I wonder—for I know you will want me 
to say. As softly as a snowflake falls upon snow? 
Oh, more softly than that. As softly as two 
gossamers are blown together in the air? Still more 
softly, even. As softly, then, as your mother kisses 
you when you are asleep, and she does not wish to 
wake you? Yes, I think it is as softly, or almost as 
softly, as that. Those are two of the very softest 
kisses—when your mother kisses you when you are 
asleep, so as not to wake you, and when the soft blue 
feathers of the plumes on each side of a Blue Bird of 
Paradise, meet and kiss each other on its breast. 
Now that is all I am going to tell you about the 
front part of the Blue Bird of Paradise—for those 
