But the Heron could not sleep, she was so lonely.  So she rose, and, flying through the still night air, came again to the Stork’s high-built nest.

“Come, Storkie dear,” she said in her sweetest tone, “come home to your dear wife’s house in the wady-shady, mushy-squshy marsh, and I will be good.”

But the Stork pretended to be asleep, and only snored in reply.  So the Heron flew home in a huff.  But the Stork could not truly sleep, he was so lonely.  So he rose, and, flying through the still night air, came again to the Heron’s home in the marsh.

“Come, my dear,” he said.  “Come home to your dear husband’s house, and I will be good.”

But the Heron made no answer, pretending to be asleep.  So the Stork flew home in a huff.  But the Heron could not truly sleep, she was so lonely.  So she rose at break of day, and, flying through the cool morning air, came again to the Stork’s nest.

“Come, Storkie dear,” she said, “come home to your dear wife’s house, and I will be good.”

But the Stork did not answer, he was so angry.  So the Heron flew home in a huff.

* * * * *

And if you are not asleep when you get as far as this, you may go on with the story by yourself, perfectly well.  You may go on just as long as you can keep awake.  For the tale has no end, no end at all.  It is still going on to this very day.  The Stork still lives lonely on his house-top, and the Heron still lives lonely in her marsh, growing lonelier and lonelier, both of them.  But because they have no tact, they are never able to agree to the same thing at the same time.  And they keep flying back and forth, saying the same things over, and over, and over, and over....

THE PHOENIX

On the top of a palm tree, in an oasis of the Arabian desert, sat the Phoenix, glowering moodily upon the world below.  He was alone, quite alone, in his old age, as he had been alone in his youth, and in his middle years; for the Phoenix has neither mate nor children, and there is never but one of his kind upon the earth.

Once he had been proud of his solitariness and of his unusual beauty, which caused such wonder when he went abroad.  But now he was old and weak and weary, and he was lonely, oh! so lonely!  He had lived too long, he thought.

For years and years and years, afar and apart, he had watched the coming and going of things in the world.  He had seen the other birds created, and had watched them undergo strange changes in form and color until they became as they are to-day.  He had seen the hundred bright eyes of Argus, the watchman, set in the Peacock’s tail.  He had seen the flaming heart of the volcano tamed and quieted until it became the flaming little Humming-Bird.  He had seen the Crow turn black and the Goldfinch become a gaudy bird, and he knew how and why all these things had come to pass.  For centuries, how many he knew not, he had watched the birds hatch out of their little eggs, flutter their feeble little wings, fly away to build nests for their little mates, and finally die and disappear as birds do, leaving no trace behind.