"
The children turned toward the Pelican among the mangrove trees, crowded
with nests of egret and heron and rosy hornbill.
The shallow water of the lagoon ran into gold-tipped ripples. In every
one the low sun laid a tiny flake of azure. Over the far shore there was
a continual flick and flash of wings, like a whirlwind playing with a
heap of waste paper. Crooked flights of flamingoes made a moving
reflection on the water like a scarlet snake, but among the queer
mangrove stems, that did not seem to know whether they were roots or
branches, there was a lovely morning stillness. It was just the place
and hour for a story, and while the Brown Pelican opened her well-filled
maw to her two hungry nestlings, the Snowy Egret went on with
the subject.
"They were a gallant and cruel and heroic and stupid lot, the Spanish
gold-seekers," she said. "They thought nothing of danger and hunger, but
they could not find their way without a guide any further than their
eyes could see, and they behaved very badly toward the poor Indians."
"We saw them all," said the Flamingo,--"Cortez and Balboa and Pizarro.
We saw Panfilo Narvaez put in at Tampa Bay, full of zeal and gold
hunger, and a year later we saw him at Appalache, beating his stirrup
irons into nails to make boats to carry him back to Havana.
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