WHEN I was just a barefoot tikeI used to wonder what 'twas likeUp there—oh way, way up—as highAs all those screaming gulls could fly—So white against the blue;And where at evening tooThe whippoorwills croaked, darted, swirled,So far above my boyhood world.
Why, every youngster with two eyesHas had his dreams about the skies—My dreams have never quitAlthough I'm getting on a bit,So one day when it came, this chance,I took it—over there in France.Upholstered inA furry skin—I think 'twas sheep, the coat,Or maybe cow or goatAnd buckled snug around the throat,With helmet, goggles—all the frills,A bird-man to the very quills;
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And thus I stood—they laughed,While I was photographed.And out before the hangar thereOur gleaming Lizzie of the air—A dragon-fly—just poised to stayA moment here and then away.A little nick dug in her sideWhere one might stick a toe, then slideAcross the top and dropKerflopWith one more rollInto the cockpit cubby-hole—From here the young Observer chapSnaps photographs and makes his map;Since you have filled his place, you areLord High Observer of your car!
The first thing you observe is notTo let your feet or legs get caughtIn all those shifts and sliding gearsAnd lifts with which the Pilot steers,Yanks at the cranks and cable-thingsThat work the rudders and the wings;And next, that life-belt should be placedJust sort of loosely 'round the waist—Superfluous no doubt,But handy when you're falling out.
The noisy motor spits and tugsIn little fits of chuggy-chugs,With chuggy-chug—chug-chug—chug-chick,Now chug and chick come double quick—The stench of petrol it exhalesWith reeking breath. The old prop's flails,Like some titanic tabby's purr,Churn 'round into a deafening whir.Goliath! That's the breed of her—You'll think so when you catch the stirShe kicks behind her in her wakeThat moment when she starts to makeHer lovely take-off—once they've wheeledHer into line upon the field!
The Pilot, turning, cries "All set?"You grab like cripes and yell "You bet!"The grinning ground-men wave good-bye,And gathering speed, the dragon-flyMoves on. The turf's a blur—so swiftIt flashes by. You feel no liftAnd yet you rise—you only knowYou float by seeing there belowThe earth receding, while the airWould gladly tearThe helmet from your goggled head.You glimpse a house, a barn, a shed—
You only know them by their tops—The profile way of seeing stops.The hills are flat, the roads are streaks,The rivers dwindle into creeks—A crazy-quilt of gay brocadesAnd all the patches fields and glades.And all around, the quilt is spannedBy vanishing horizon-land,Where fading contours disappearIn wreaths of violet atmosphereThat gradually evolve intoThat great inverted bowl of blue.
And are you dizzy? How absurd!You're not of earth—you are a bird.You do not have that toppling feelWhen all beneath you seemed to reelThat day you peeped in timid frightFrom some cathedral's pigmy height;You are afloat on gleaming wings,Not propped up with terrestrial things.
But look! Hold fast! With wicked tiltShe's swinging round. That crazy-quilt,The spreading earth, has dropped from view—Or so it seems somehow to youUntil your tangled vision seesFields and rivers, roads and trees,
Barns and houses—little town,Smiling at you, looking down.Another twist and there you viewThe sprawling world out under you,All right-side-up and in its place—The play-ground of the human race—Those insects whom you left to creepAnd work and laugh and eat and sleep.Perspectives do get twisted quiteIn making one's initial flight!
But swift! Low bridge! She mounts the loop!You meet the onslaught with a stoop,And with her upward-moving course,You're shoved against her with such force,That little seat you're sticking toSeems fairly crushing into you.Then just as quickly, all has ceased,The sudden impact is released,You clutch to keep from dropping now,You clutch and wonder—marvel howShe slowly crawls across the top,She almost stalls—you think she'll stop!You wonder just how long 'twould takeTo make that trip should something breakOr slip,Or should you loose your grip—
And if you'd strike a church or what—Or just some pleasant garden spot;
Perhaps you hope a kindly fateWould cause you to evaporateInto an atmospheric state—A sort of cosmic spirit-thing,And thus take wing, just fluttering,Up toward those pearly portals there,So nonchalant and debonair—Without all that formalityOf tumbling first into a tree!
But see! She's found an even keelAt last. What joy to feelThat level glide—to know you're stillOn board—until,Oh Lord! Another stunt!You grab, you grunt,But breathe you can't,Her nose has struck a fiendish slant!That chuggy-chug—has it gone dead?Or has the Pilot lost his head?He does not swerve, his aim's exact,He's Hell-bent for that timber-tract!Oh were there ever, ever treesWith such a prickly look as these?
Now look! She zooms! Agile she springsAloft with taut and straining wings.In one great climb she squanders allThe power she gathered in her fall;She leaves the woodlands in her wake,She cuts across a marshy lake,And dipping gently, circles roundAbove the aviation ground,Where field-mechanics stand aboutTo lend a hand and help you out—To ask you how you liked to dropFive thousand feet without a stop,And if the loop was all you thoughtA loop would likely be or not?
You thank them—tell them all how gladYou were to have the ride you had,And then, a trifle limp and white,With some slight loss of appetite,And with two rather wobbly pegsAs proxies for your former legs,You kick the turf up with your heelTo reassure yourself it's real—A little woozy still you feel,
A little dizzy—And then you take one long, last look—at Lizzie!Thus ends my tale—You've got it straight,The way we teased and tempted fate,Shook off this earthly dust and wentHobnobbing with the firmament.
