Atalapha, a Winged Brownie 
arose, but the All-mother was kind, had blown the 
grass about him; it hid him from the hungry Gull 
and from the sun’s noon rays. The little tide of 
mid-ocean rose on the beach but did not reach him 
in his deathlike sleep. The second tide had risen 
and gone, and the sun had sunk in the dark western 
waters before he stirred. He shivered all over, 
then slowly revived; the captain awoke, took anew 
the command of the ship—Atalapha was himself 
once more. He was conscious but weak, and burnt 
with a fervent thirst. 
His wings were strong but bone-tired and stiff. 
Spreading them out, he rose with an effort. The 
water was there. He sailed over it and dipped his 
lips only to sputter it out. Why had he forgotten? 
Had not he learnt that lesson? 
With parched and burning tongue he sailed in- 
land. A broad, rocky pool was dragging down a 
fragment of the bright sky to contrast it with 
the dull ground. He knew this was right. He 
sailed and dipped. Oh, joy! Sweet, sweet water! 
Oh, blessed balm and comfort! Sweet and cool 
with recent rain! He drank till the salt was washed 
from his burning lips. He drank till the fever 
fled, till his body’s pores were filled, till his wings 
were cool and moist, and now his brain was clear, 
and with strength renewed, he swept through the 
205 
