OLD TRAMP STORMY PETREL 
Far in the western sky great crowds of 
fairy bird folks were skimming, their filmy 
gowns white as Miss Swan’s bathing suit. 
Little Baby Laughing Loon sat with her feet 
dangling in the water, dreaming of them 
and wondering why she could not join them. 
“I wish I wasn’t so much afraid of trust¬ 
ing myself to the air,” she thought wistfully. 
Behind these airy, cloudy visions of fairy 
bird folks were dark heads popping up now 
and then. ‘‘They are black pirates of fairy 
bird lands,” thought Baby. “I am quite 
sure I should be very much afraid of them, 
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