HEAVEN, AT LAST
I staggered up the last step of the golden stairs and stood puffing and gasping. St. Peter came over to me and flapped his wings in my face. I noticed that the wings were all lettered—A.B.C.D.—I didn’t look further.
“Your admittance ticket,” he growled, and gloatingly fingered his keys. The largest was square and shiny—a Phi Beta Kappa Key.
I pulled a crumpled sheet of 8-¹⁄₂×11 paper from my pocket. St. Peter took it, slowly looked at it upside down, then sideways, then right side up.
“Un-huh,” said St. Peter at last, with celestial vagueness, “Un-huh,” he repeated wisely.
“May I ...” I whispered.
St. Peter turned around slowly, showing me a great expanse of wing.
“Close your eyes,” he said, “and pull out a feather, and while you are about it, take one for each of your little friends.”
“I can’t see which one to choose, if I close my eyes,” I objected most knowingly.
“It doesn’t make any difference which one you choose,” said St. Peter, “I only give them out as souvenirs. A feather doesn’t really help you to fly. It just gives you confidence. The rest is up to you.”