THE EXHILARATIONS OF THE ROAD. 



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

 tudes ; it grasps the curbing, or bends to the form of 

 the uneven surfaces, a thing sensuous and alive, 

 that seems to take cognizance of whatever it touches 

 or passes. How primitive and uncivil it looks in such 

 company, a real barbarian in the parlor. We are 

 so unused to the human anatomy, to simple, un- 

 adorned 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 princi- 

 ples, in direct contact and intercourse with the earth 

 and the elements, his faculties unsheathed, his mind 

 plastic, his body toughened, his heart light, his soul 

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