cination in their
flight!--for this appears to touch by some subtile suggestion upon the
hope or dream of man. I am, indeed, now--though always, please God, a
boy--not so young a boy as once, when I could be unhappy for the want of
wings, and deem, for a moment, that life is little worth without them;
yet never does a bird fly in my view, especially if its flight be lofty
and sustained, but it seems to carry some deep, immemorial secret of my
existence, as if my immortal life flew with it. Sweet fugitive, when
will it fly with me? Whenever it does,--and something assures me that
one day it will,--then the new heavens and new earth! Meanwhile the
intimation of it puts to the lip some unseen cup, out of which, in a
soft ecstasy of pain that is better than pleasure, I quaff peace, peace.
It is not always nor often that one is open to this supreme charm; but
it comes at times, and then to hope all and believe all is easy as to
breathe.

This mood also carries me farther than almost anything else into
childhood; for, in the height of it, I can go back by link after link of
remembrance, and see myself ... there ... and there ... and there again
... and at last deep into the rosy suffusion of dawn,--still looking up,
and intent on that airy motion. To this day I know birds better by their
flight than by their forms, unless it be the form of the wing.

I tried to see what it is which gives to the flight of some birds that
look of majestic ease. Partly it is due to the slow stroke, but more, I
thought, to the flexibility of the wing, and to the fact that this is
less directly up-and-down in its action than that of the duck, for
example. The chief effort of the duck is to sustain its weight.
Consequently the wing must lie flat (comparatively) upon the air, and be
kept straight out, economizing its vertical pressure; and hence the
noticeable stiffness and toilsomeness of its progression. The gull, less
concerned to sustain itself, uses the wing more flexibly, bending it
slightly at the elbow, and pressing back the outer portion with each
stroke. So a heavy swimmer must keep his hands flat, pressing down upon
the water to hold up his head; while one who swims very lightly handles
them more freely and flexibly, using them at pleasure to assist his
progress. Yet the matter refuses to be wholly explained, and remains
partly a mystery. Darwin, when in Patagonia, observed condors circling
in the air, and saw them sail half an hour by t