p11_It was morning,and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.

A mile from shore a fishing boat chummed the water, and the word for Breakfast Flock flashed through the air,till a craowd of a thousand seagulls came to dodge and fight for bits of food.

It was another busy day beginning.

 But way off alone,out by himself beyond boat and shore,Jonathan Livingston Seagull
 was practing.A hundred feet in the sky he
lowered his webbed feet,lifted his beak, and
strained to hold a painful  hard twisting cuve
through his wings.The curve meant that he
would fly slowly,and now he slowed until the
wind was a whisper in his face,until the ocean
stood still beneath him.He narrowed his eyes
in fierce concentration,held his breath,foced
one ...single ...more...inch...of
...curve....Then his feathers ruffled,he
stalled and fell.
Seagulls as you know,never falter,never
stall To stall in the air is for them disgrace and 
kit is dishonor.
But Jonathan Livingston Seagull,unashamed,
streetching his wings again in that trem-
bling hard curve---slowing,slowing,and stalling
once more ---was no ordinary bird.