102 
ALMOST HUMAN 
FLAMINGOES. 
The brilliant white and rosy-pink flamingoes are always prime 
favorites at the Zoo, particularly if they can be seen in their stately 
dance that is almost identical with the ceremonial one of the native 
companions, only they go through the whole performance in the water, 
and thus omit the flying with twdgs. They would hurt their webbed 
feet too seriously if they attempted this quick and high stepping on 
rough and hard ground, whereas they are peculiarly fitted for any move- 
ments in the water. Their advancing and retiring, bowing and curtsey- 
ing are rather more allied to the Lancers than the movements of the 
Australian cranes, but otherwise the two dances are alike, especially in 
the finale; for there is always a pariah before they resume their normal 
avocations. 
These flamingoes never leave the water. They sleep with one foot 
tucked up under a wing, and the head hidden in the back plumage, their 
wondrously long necks being almost tied into the figure 8. It is said 
that they never sit down ; that even in nesting the mother bird builds 
a mound so high that she can stand astride it. They rest one foot 
at a time, like the stork. Their wings grow so quickly that they have 
to be cut every six or eight weeks — flamingoes are not pinioned like most 
of the captive birds. Several years ago, on a very windy day, one of them 
shook out his great wings in a fine stretch, when he was caught up by 
the gusty wind, and discovered to his own and everybody else’s astonish- 
ment that he was able to fly! Up he went joyously. He circled around 
and around the gardens for a while, as if he dared not lose sight of 
home lest his new-born joy should prove unsubstantial, and he might 
awake and And himself away from help. When he was sure he was not 
dreaming, he sped in all the ecstacies of new-won liberty for pastures 
new, and his old friends saw him no more — at least, all but one were 
left behind forever. It is possible — and let us hope true — that he has 
found a friend in his retreat to whom he may whisper “Solitude is 
sweet!” for shortly afterwards a pair of these flamingoes were sold to 
a gentleman in one of the suburbs, and, the clipping of the wings having 
been delayed a little too long, one of them swept into the blue dome of 
air likewise. So it is quite possible the two old friends met somewhere, 
and unless somebody (saying “It’s a fine morning; let’s go and kill 
something,”) found them with his gun, are still happily exploring the 
marshlands of Australia. 
