LOOP! LOOP!!
(A story of aerial prowess in the provinces.)
They said, "He goes a-tumbling through the hollow
And trackless empyrean like a clown,
Head pointed to the earth where weaklings wallow,
Feet up toward the stars; not such renown
Even our lord himself, the bright Apollo,
Gets in his gilded car. For one bob down
You shall behold the thing." "Right-o," I said,
Clapping the old brown bay leaves on my head.
So to the hangars. Time, about eleven,
The air full chill, the ground a mess of muck,
And long time gazed I on the wintry heaven
And thought of many a deed of Saxon pluck;
How DRAKE, for instance, good old DRAKE of Devon,
Played bowls at Plymouth Hoe. Twelve-thirty struck.
No one had vaulted through the air's abyss;
DRAKE would have plunged tail up an hour ere this.
Brief interval for lunch, and then a drizzle
Fell on the dreary field. Like some dead moth
The thing remained. Chagrin commenced to sizzle,
And certain people cried, "A thillingth loth."
Others, "Hey, Mister Airman, it's a swizzle!"
Then a stern man came out, and with a cloth
Lightly, as one well used to such a feat,
Swaddled the brute's propeller and its seat.
The skies grew darkling, and there went a rumour,
"The thing is off; he will not fly to-day;"
And forth we wandered, some in rare ill-humour,
But not, oh, not the bard. Yet this I say—
There are two kinds of courage: one's a boomer
Avid of gold and glory; this is A,
Crowned with a palm, and in her hands I see
Sheaves of press cuttings. There is also B.
Not venturesome, this last, to brave the billows,
To beard the panther in his hidden lair,
To probe the epiderms of armadillos,
Nor execute wild cart-wheels in the air;
But who shall say how much Britannia still owes
To B, the kind of courage that can bear
Dauntless to wait, whate'er the skies portend,
(Having paid entrance) to the bitter end?
The heavenly hero in his suit of leather
Soars through Olympus with the world beneath
Sometimes, and sometimes, owing to the weather,
Scratches his fixtures in the tempest's teeth.
Shall the high gods, who gaze on both together,
Count him the nobler, or confer their wreath
On the brave bull-dog bard, who risks his thews
Standing about all day in thin-soled shoes?
EVOE.
| "HERE'S ONE I'M SURE YOU'LL LIKE, TREVOR." | "WHAT IS IT?" |
| "ROBINSON CRUSOE." | "IN WHAT LANGUAGE?" |