What if the angels of God are white and
those of the devil are black? But a black one has no business up there.
Maybe some poor black angel is so tired of being punished it's for
slipping to the gates, beating its wings trying to make the Master
hear!"
Again and again Freckles searched the sky, but there was no answering
gleam of golden gates, no form of sailing bird; then he went slowly
on his way, turning the feather and wondering about it. It was a wing
quill, eighteen inches in length, with a heavy spine, gray at the base,
shading to jet black at the tip, and it caught the play of the sun's
rays in slanting gleams of green and bronze. Again Freckles' "old man
of the sea" sat sullen and heavy on his shoulders and weighted him down
until his step lagged and his heart ached.
"Where did it come from? What is it? Oh, how I wish I knew!" he kept
repeating as he turned and studied the feather, with almost unseeing
eyes, so intently was he thinking.
Before him spread a large, green pool, filled with rotting logs and
leaves, bordered with delicate ferns and grasses among which lifted the
creamy spikes of the arrow-head, the blue of water-hyacinth, and the
delicate yellow of the jewel-flower.
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