Whose house is dark and bare and cold,
Whose house is cold,
This is his own!”
“Ha! Our castles in the clouds are always bare--and often cold. We’re so glad you’ve made us free of yours!”
The younger aviator--Big Boy--drew a long breath; perhaps sometimes, in the vast empty spaces of those air-castles, occasionally dreary--he might, like Lieutenant Iver over-seas--recall the warm imagery of the Council Fire, its magic of sisterhood, when he missed the things that make life hum.
“Now! it’s your turn. You sing us a song!” pleaded Lilla, a fluttering Owlet, as the brown-clad maidens, light as wafted leaves, settled again into a sitting circle upon the sands.
“Well, I like that! I’ll tell the world!” laughingly. “To ask me to croak, like a flying frog, after such a smooth performance--as--that!... However, how does this go?
“‘Oh, Major! Oh, Major! Oh, Major!’ he said,
‘What shall we do with this flying cadet?
His ambitions are many,