“Oh!... Oh! a won-der-ful thing is a flying cadet,
He lives on a promise and hope,”
he chanted softly once more, ere pursuing the backward thrills of field-day.
“Well! I suppose it’s high time that we were tucking our heads under our wings--or bunking out on those wings, on the beach,” he remarked half an hour later, after excited hostesses, by this eventful Council Fire, had listened, with cheeks aflame, to more aërial jokes “put over” upon civilians; to tales of clown flying and aërial battles; to the crowning narrative of an “enemy” air-ship--of counterfeit hostility, like the gas-attack at Camp Evens--appearing to bomb the field; of an oil-puddle afire, to represent a burning city; of sirens sounding, bombs exploding, cloud-high, and a U. S. aëroplane “jumping on his tail” to bring him down.
“Gracious! I’ll hear those whistles--that aërial bombardment--in my sleep,” murmured Arline, the Rainbow. “If you’re very tired after flying your long course to-day, you can both turn in to sleep in one of the tents, and we’ll guard the big war-plane in a body--we girls--during part of the night, anyway,” proffered she, the most timid of the group.
The Guardian laughed; so did the aëronauts.
“Sing us a lullaby, instead--another smooth song,” pleaded Big Boy.
And drowsily the strains of “Mammy Moon” stole from tired voices upon the dark, while the full-faced Green-Corn Moon looked down, perhaps pondering upon how many generations of moons had come and gone without seeing such a miracle as the great winged fish upon the dusky beach--the competing voyager of the clouds.
“I suppose you won’t be abroad at dawn to see us take off from the sands--see us ‘zoom’!” remarked the younger aviator as he bade his beaded hostesses good-night.
“Don’t be too sure of that!” came the answer of drowsy challenge, melting into the magic--deep soul-magic--of