Freddy the young peacock sat on the bank of the Shimmering Pond, crying softly to himself.
“I don’t see any use in living,” he sighed, “if no one admires you. And oh, dear! no one admires me.”
It was a beautiful afternoon in the spring. Birds of every kind were fluttering about, and all of them had lovely and bright feathers except Freddy. His feathers were rather dull, and he was the only one of his dozen brothers and sisters who had so few colors.
“Why are you so sad?” asked a wise old turtle, crawling up the bank beside the little peacock.
“Oh, my!” said Freddy; “I wish I were as beautiful as you, with your wrinkled old shell, and your bright eyes, and your—“
“Don’t be foolish! Don’t be silly! Don’t be foolish!” interrupted the turtle. “Be yourself, and only yourself!”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Freddy, “that is just what I want to be.”
“Why not?” asked the turtle.
“Because I’m not beautiful, like my brothers and sisters,” and Freddy began to cry again.
The amusing thing was that while Freddy was crying, his young brothers and sisters came up from the pond and began to strut about, ruffling their fine feathers.
“Don’t you think I’m lovely?” asked one with bright green plumes.
“Are you lovely?” answered Freddy. “I can’t see your feathers.”
“Never mind about seeing them,” said she. “I know that I’m lovely.”
“My feathers are the most beautiful of us all,” declared another. “See how they shine!”
“I should love to be as beautiful as you say you are,” said Freddy with a sigh.
“But why don’t you take some of my beautiful colors?” she asked.
“Well, I should be glad to,” said Freddy. “But how can I, pray tell?”
“There’s nothing easier,” said the shining-feathered little peacock. “You can tell the plain white ones to fly away and leave you and then live here by the Shining Pond.”
“I’ll try as soon as I can,” Freddy replied. “Good-by for the present. I want to do so much for my looks that I must run a bit before I go home.”
The next day they all met again, and one young peacock with his new green colors said, “I am going to America.”
“Why so?” they all asked.
“Because it is the land of colors.”
“Colors are as plentiful there as dirt,” said a little peacock whose feathers were very brown.
“That may be,” said the colored one, “but they haven’t got such a perfect land of colors as I have.”
And they all flew off and left Freddy and the plain white peacocks.
In a few hours all but the white ones had gone, but the plain, white peacocks never heeded the others. A superb new sun was shining on them, and the pond was full of beautiful reflection.
“It’s marvelous, our meeting here,” said one, “and marvelously beautiful our existence positively is.”
But at that moment Freddy was stretched upon the bank, crying that he wished he were gorgeous.
“I really must have color at any price,” he sobbed. “Oh, dear! You wrinkled old turtle, I wish you were only colorful and bright—something to adorn me!”
“Be just what you like,” said the turtle. “I shall never disturb you.”
Freddy glanced doubtfully at the old fellow.
“I have done fretting about my life,” he said, rising and drying his tears. “Love of self does not trouble you.”
“Not at all,” said the turtle, “and therefore be happy.”
But all his peacock brothers covered him with bright colors, and then they all rose up in the air, flew out of the country in their old-fashioned peacock attire, and remained there for some time, only looking back across the surface so as to make it reflect the marvelous country of their colours.
Now, let us note that peacocks are blue only on that side which faces the pond and on the other that is red and green, so that if putting them together, you might easily put them on wrong so as to get the face this time looking in and the reverse as it were out.
Freddy then sought to escape to the wild of colors. When he called out:
“Oh! the pronunciation of each one without any other twist than to run my thumb along lies to a miracle in more ways than one.”
And, you may be sure, Freddy was understood.
Slowly, abroad in the congenial color fork, the colours were they themselves ruffled naturally up the other way in our own grandfatherly seventh heaven.