Then from all quarters came a loud uproar; a thousand piercing,
whistling yells; a rackety, rumbling, rattling commotion mixed with the
beat and swish of wings. This was followed by an upward rush which
darkened the sky.
Peter saw himself standing like a monarch reviewing his nation from an
elevated platform. Around him flew the feathered tribes of the air. From
the fluttering starling to the giant albatross, all were liberated and
each paid homage to him--the master of the sky, before they shot upward
and through the oval opening in the rent heaven. It was a grand and
colourful sight to behold.
Finally they were all gone and he saw himself take a last look about him
as he stood alone on his elevation. He then craned his neck and turned
his face to the oval nothingness--flapped his arms, and with a thrilling
sensation flew heavenward. His body went through the air a little
sideways--but it flew, and the rest did not matter.
Poor Peter awoke to find himself in the loft of the barn among his cages
of pigeons, confronted with the sordidness of material reality. He
opened a small window and then flung open the cages.
Through the night he limped from barn to barn, darting under wagons, and
between the legs of slumbering horses, opening doors, boxes, and even
barrels.
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