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.

Says I,—­

“Sandy, out with it.  Come—­no secrets among friends.  I notice you don’t ever wear wings—­and plenty others don’t.  I’ve been making an ass of myself—­is that it?”

“That is about the size of it.  But it is no harm.  We all do it at first.  It’s perfectly natural.  You see, on earth we jump to such foolish conclusions as to things up here.  In the pictures we always saw the angels with wings on—­and that was all right; but we jumped to the conclusion that that was their way of getting around--and that was all wrong.  The wings ain’t anything but a uniform, that’s all.  When they are in the field—­so to speak,—­they always wear them; you never see an angel going with a message anywhere without his wings, any more than you would see a military officer presiding at a court-martial without his uniform, or a postman delivering letters, or a policeman walking his beat, in plain clothes.  But they ain’t to fly with!  The wings are for show, not for use.  Old experienced angels are like officers of the regular army—­they dress plain, when they are off duty.  New angels are like the militia—­never shed the uniform—­always fluttering and floundering around in their wings, butting people down, flapping here, and there, and everywhere, always imagining they are attracting the admiring eye—­well, they just think they are the very most important people in heaven.  And when you see one of them come sailing around with one wing tipped up and t’other down, you make up your mind he is saying to himself:  ’I wish Mary Ann in Arkansaw could see me now.  I reckon she’d wish she hadn’t shook me.’  No, they’re just for show, that’s all—­only just for show.”