sat upon that old black horsehair couch with me at her side, I said:
'I've just been reading what is termed a hot-air-craft poem in the Aeroplane. I wonder if I recollect the concluding lines. They run something like this:—
The Scout makes no question of Ayes or Noes,
But right or left, as banks the Pilot, goes
And he who dropped One down into the Field—
He knows about it all—he knows, he knows!
Here with a Dud Machine, if Winds allow,
A Flask of Wine, a Load of Bombs—and Thou
Before me sitting in the Second Seat—
A Midnight Raid is Paradise enow.
And when I turn upon the Homeward Trail,
Dreaming of Decorations, Cakes and Ale,
How bitter on the First Day's Leave to find
My Name spelt wrongly in the 'Daily Mail!'
'Ah!' protested my love. 'You really don't take it with sufficient seriousness, Claude!'
'I do,' was my quick protest. 'I am not worrying about failure: I am only anticipating success.'
'Do not be over sanguine, dear, I beg of you.'
