1 The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings.
2 His attitude was one of hopeless resignation as he looked toward a distant bird winging its flight away from him.
3 A bird with a broken wing was beating the air above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down, down to the water.
4 It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood.
5 Well, for instance, when I left her to-day, she put her arms around me and felt my shoulder blades, to see if my wings were strong, she said.
6 They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering angels.
7 They could feel the hot breath of the Southern night; they could hear the long sweep of the pirogue through the glistening moonlit water, the beating of birds' wings, rising startled from among the reeds in the salt-water pools; they could see the faces of the lovers, pale, close together, rapt in oblivious forgetfulness, drifting into the unknown.