THE INDEPENDENT
round the Arc de Triomphe and down the Avenue des Champs Elysées at as low an altitude as the housetops on either side, fearing no ill and finding no difficulty
Knowing that the feat must be accomplished at an hour when the pleasure promenade of all Paris would be the least encumbered, I had instructed my men to sleep through the early part of the night at the Neuilly station. Arriving at 3 a.m. I climbed the wall, soothed the dog, waked the men, brought out the airship and crossed the Seine as I rose diagonally a little after dawn. Turning to the left I made my way over the Bois, picking out the open spaces. When I came to trees I jumped over them. So, navigating through the cool air of dawn I reached the Porte Dauphine and the beginning of the Avenue of the Bois, which leads to the Arc de Triomphe.
The carriage promenade of Tout Paris was empty, and I might actually have threaded the Arc de Triomphe had I deemed myself worthy. Instead, I rounded the national monument to the right, as the law directs. Like the Avenue of the Bois, the Avenue of the Champs Elysées, was deserted. Far down its length I saw a solitary cab. As I guide roped along to my house at the corner of the rue Washington, I thought of the time, sure to come, when the navigators of handy little airships will not be obliged to land in the street, but will have their guide ropes caught by their domestics on their own roof-gardens.
So I reached my street corner, to which I pointed downward my stem and descended very gently. Two servants caught, steadied and held the airship while I mounted to my apartment for a cup of coffee. That is another kind of dirigible ballooning!
Paris, France.
Ballade of Dead Cities BY JESSIE STORRS FERRIS
Wuene are their purp
led pomp and pride,
And where their caliphs and their king:
The The jeweled rajahs, The The moats that ran Where are they,—boast Dead, driven, desert
Oh, where is Thebes, that by the tide Of Nilus saw strange worshipings And Carthage, where gold galleys plied? And Troy, whose wars the Poet sings? Pompeii, where is she whose strings Of pleasure snapt too soon,—that Prone ‘neath Vesuvius’ scoriac sting: Dead, driven, desert dust are they
Prince, Know that man’s And vain his lordli
artial Caesars, have they died?
flown on wings?
alls that knew beleaguerings,
with blood alway— of man-made things?— dust are they.
And where is Babylon, that sighed
- Mid gardens cooled with fountain-springs?
And Tyre, all royal-ruddy dyed? And Sidon, rich from voyagings? Where now is Sparta,—name that rings ‘The clarion-call of courage?—Nay, Your word no answering echo brings,— Dead, driven, desert dust are they.
ENVOY.
d your June-tide junketings,
life is but a day, liest fashionings,—
, desert dust are they.
