FLIGHT INTO REALTY
59
of the stupid chirping of a sparrow, and the jerky swelling and
deflating of his body as he chirped.
And then the ice men came, shouting, down the alley. Ban–
tering, brawny fellows, leaping out of dieir truck, banging the
tinny doors of it, lifting carelessly the pure, bluish ice in those
huge metal claws; perspiring up flights of stairs numbering even
to five; then a twisted, wet grin, a red palm receiving a dime or
two, rapid, clumping descent, and more yelling hoarsely.
"HICE
I"
as the truck rattles slowly down the alley.
They do this every day, and every day they make me glad,
and ashamed, and puzzled. But the kind of gladness I feel is,
I think, similar to theirs, which makes them throw themselves
so sweepingly and vigorously into their work. They bring ice
to tenements, chip a thick slice of it with rapid jabs to make it
fit in the ice chest, so that those who are lucky enough to have
these things can gulp down chilled milk and take a vicious delight
in butter that is almost too hard to spread, and meat that is fre e
of a rotten taint because it lay all day on the cool breast of a
piece of ice.
I think, somehow, this all has a relation to what I wanted
to tell you about, yesterday. I think there is a truth in it that
I have known for a long time but have never felt sufficiently.
To begin with, yesterday was a torrid day. Paul came
over with the makings of a cocktail or two; you know my weak–
ness on hot days. Between the two of us, before he left we
"knocked the shoulders off a pint." This put me in an extremely
mystical mood, a mood, in which I was fairly treading on beauti–
ful rainbow colored bubbles; a mood, in short, in which to go for
a walk in the Fenway and muse about Nature. Mind you, I
was not inebriated. No fuzzy edges to things; everything was
twice as clear as usual, as though my eyes had never been focused
correctly before. There was a handful of cool blue sparks in
the black sky, and the moon's gleaming body lay warm in a
twisted veil of white cloud drift. I walked along the naked foot–
path that lies intimate'ly near the lips of Muddy River. This
park, you know, is miles long, and one can walk for hours with–
out having to recross a single patch of grass. There were ducks
skimming silently on the little river, and stars melting in the
water. It was ideal, you see, but when one's focus is artificially
enhanced, moods are apt to come and go, and I began to feel
a sense of futility. Such moods are splendid until you begin to
think of yourself ini relation to all you are appreciating; until
