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?"