I had been having considerable trouble with my wings. The day after I
helped the choir I made a dash or two with them, but was not lucky.
First off, I flew thirty yards, and then fouled an Irishman and brought
him down—brought us both down, in fact. Next, I had a collision with a
Bishop—and bowled him down, of course. We had some sharp words, and I
felt pretty cheap, to come banging into a grave old person like that,
with a million strangers looking on and smiling to themselves.
I saw I hadn’t got the hang of the steering, and so couldn’t rightly tell
where I was going to bring up when I started. I went afoot the rest of
the day, and let my wings hang. Early next morning I went to a private
place to have some practice. I got up on a pretty high rock, and got a
good start, and went swooping down, aiming for a bush a little over three
hundred yards off; but I couldn’t seem to calculate for the wind, which
was about two points abaft my beam. I could see I was going considerable
to looard of the bush, so I worked my starboard wing slow and went ahead
strong on the port one, but it wouldn’t answer; I could see I was going
to broach to, so I slowed down on both, and lit. I went back to the rock
and took another chance at it. I aimed two or three points to starboard
of the bush—yes, more than that—enough so as to make it nearly a
head-wind. I done well enough, but made pretty poor time. I could see,
plain enough, that on a head-wind, wings was a mistake. I could see that
a body could sail pretty close to the wind, but he couldn’t go in the
wind’s eye. I could see that if I wanted to go a-visiting any distance
from home, and the wind was ahead, I might have to wait days, maybe, for
a change; and I could see, too, that these things could not be any use at
all in a gale; if you tried to run before the wind, you would make a mess
of it, for there isn’t anyway to shorten sail—like reefing, you know—you
have to take it _all_ in—shut your feathers down flat to your sides.
That would _land_ you, of course. You could lay to, with your head to
the wind—that is the best you could do, and right hard work you’d find
it, too. If you tried any other game, you would founder, sure.
I judge it was about a couple of weeks or so after this that I dropped
old Sandy McWilliams a note one day—it was a Tuesday—and asked him to
come over and take his manna and quails with me next day; and the first
thing he did when he stepped in was to twinkle his eye in a sly way, and
say,—
“Well, Cap, what you done with your wings?”
I saw in a minute that there was some sarcasm done up in that rag
somewheres, but I never let on. I only says,—
“Gone to the wash.”
“Yes,” he says, in a dry sort of way, “they mostly go to the wash—about
this time—I’ve often noticed it. Fresh angels are powerful neat. When
do you look for ’em back?”
“Day after to-morrow,” says I.
He winked at me, and smiled.