THE EXHILARATIONS OF THE ROAD 1 



Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road. 



WALT WHITMAN. 



OCCASIONALLY on the sidewalk, amid the 

 dapper, swiftly moving, high-heeled boots and 

 gaiters, I catch a glimpse of the naked human foot. 

 Nimbly it scuffs along, the toes spread, the sides 

 flatten, the heel protrudes; it grasps the curbing, 

 or bends to the form of the uneven surfaces, a 

 thing sensuous and alive, that seems to take cogni 

 zance of whatever it touches or passes. How primi 

 tive and uncivil it looks in such company, a real 

 barbarian in the parlor! We are so unused to the 

 human anatomy, to simple, unadorned nature, that 

 it looks a little repulsive; but it is beautiful for all 

 that. Though it be a black foot and an unwashed 

 foot, it shall be exalted. It is a thing of life amid 

 leather, a free spirit amid cramped, a wild bird 

 amid caged, an athlete amid consumptives. It is 

 the symbol of my order, the Order of Walkers. 

 That unhampered, vitally playing piece of anatomy 

 is the type of the pedestrian, man returned to first 



1 From Winter Sunshine. 



