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THE young seagull was alone on his ledge. His two brothers and his sister had already flown the day before. He had been afraid to fly with them. Somehow when he had taken a little run forward the brink of the ledge and attempted to his wings he became afraid. The great of sea stretched down beneath, and it was such a way down — miles down. He felt certain that his wings would never support him; so he bent his head and ran away back to the little hole under the ledge where he slept night. Even when each of his brothers and his little sister, whose wings were far shorter than his own, ran to the , flapped their wings, and flew away, he failed to up courage to take that plunge which appeared to him so desperate. His father and mother had come around calling to him shrilly, upbraiding him, threatening to let him starve on his ledge unless he flew away. But for the life of him he could not move.
That was twenty-four hours ago. Since then nobody had come near him. The day before, all day , he had watched his parents flying with his brothers and sister, perfecting them in the of flight, teaching them how to the waves and how to for fish. He had, in fact, seen his older brother catch his first herring and devour it, standing on a rock, while his parents circled around raising a proud . And all the morning the whole family had walked about on the big plateau midway down the opposite cliff taunting him with his cowardice.
The sun was now ascending the sky, blazing on his ledge that faced the south. He felt the heat because he had not eaten since the previous nightfall. He stepped slowly to the brink of the ledge, and standing on one leg with the other leg hidden under his wing, he closed one eye, then the other, and pretended to be asleep. Still they no notice of him. He saw his two brothers and his sister lying the plateau dozing with their heads sunk into their necks. His father was the feathers on his white back. Only his mother was looking at him. She was standing on a little high hump on the plateau, her white breast thrust forward. Now and again, she tore at a piece of fish that lay at her feet and then scrapped each side of her beak on the rock. The sight of the food maddened him. How he loved to tear food that way, scrapping his beak and again to whet it.
