AN old tale runs that a sailor returned to his
mother with marvelous stories of what he had
seen in foreign places. "There be one country,"
he said, "where all the rivers run milk by day and
honey by night, and tobacco grows in thick squares
of bark all ready to be prised off and chewed."

"My! My! Son, that do be wonderful. I would
like to see that land," answered his mother.

"And there be waters where fish not only do leap
out about the bows of the ship but spread wings
and go flying over the water," continued the sailor.

And with that the irate parent thrust her son out
of doors and bade him never come back, for any evil
being who could so insult her with such obvious lies
about impossible things was no son of hers.

And this is the mood in which we should approach
our quest for flyingfish. Before we have ever seen
one alive we should, as I have advised in the case
of hummingbirds, active volcanoes and the rings of
Saturn, preserve a gentle skepticism. Not an active,
argumentative disbelief, but a childish doubt in
reading of them whether these things are not too
wonderful to be real.

This produces two worthy results: It keeps alive

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