WHEN I was just a barefoot tike I used to wonder what 'twas like Up there—oh way, way up—as high As all those screaming gulls could fly— So white against the blue; And where at evening too The whippoorwills croaked, darted, swirled, So far above my boyhood world.
Why, every youngster with two eyes Has had his dreams about the skies— My dreams have never quit Although I'm getting on a bit, So one day when it came, this chance, I took it—over there in France. Upholstered in A furry skin— I think 'twas sheep, the coat, Or maybe cow or goat And buckled snug around the throat, With helmet, goggles—all the frills, A bird-man to the very quills;
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And thus I stood—they laughed, While I was photographed. And out before the hangar there Our gleaming Lizzie of the air— A dragon-fly—just poised to stay A moment here and then away. A little nick dug in her side Where one might stick a toe, then slide Across the top and drop Kerflop With one more roll Into the cockpit cubby-hole— From here the young Observer chap Snaps photographs and makes his map; Since you have filled his place, you are Lord High Observer of your car!
The first thing you observe is not To let your feet or legs get caught In all those shifts and sliding gears And lifts with which the Pilot steers, Yanks at the cranks and cable-things That work the rudders and the wings; And next, that life-belt should be placed Just sort of loosely 'round the waist— Superfluous no doubt, But handy when you're falling out.
The noisy motor spits and tugs In little fits of chuggy-chugs, With chuggy-chug—chug-chug—chug-chick, Now chug and chick come double quick— The stench of petrol it exhales With reeking breath. The old prop's flails, Like some titanic tabby's purr, Churn 'round into a deafening whir. Goliath! That's the breed of her— You'll think so when you catch the stir She kicks behind her in her wake That moment when she starts to make Her lovely take-off—once they've wheeled Her into line upon the field!
The Pilot, turning, cries "All set?" You grab like cripes and yell "You bet!" The grinning ground-men wave good-bye, And gathering speed, the dragon-fly Moves on. The turf's a blur—so swift It flashes by. You feel no lift And yet you rise—you only know You float by seeing there below The earth receding, while the air Would gladly tear The helmet from your goggled head. You glimpse a house, a barn, a shed—
You only know them by their tops— The profile way of seeing stops. The hills are flat, the roads are streaks, The rivers dwindle into creeks— A crazy-quilt of gay brocades And all the patches fields and glades. And all around, the quilt is spanned By vanishing horizon-land, Where fading contours disappear In wreaths of violet atmosphere That gradually evolve into That great inverted bowl of blue.
And are you dizzy? How absurd! You're not of earth—you are a bird. You do not have that toppling feel When all beneath you seemed to reel That day you peeped in timid fright From some cathedral's pigmy height; You are afloat on gleaming wings, Not propped up with terrestrial things.
But look! Hold fast! With wicked tilt She's swinging round. That crazy-quilt, The spreading earth, has dropped from view— Or so it seems somehow to you Until your tangled vision sees Fields and rivers, roads and trees,
Barns and houses—little town, Smiling at you, looking down. Another twist and there you view The sprawling world out under you, All right-side-up and in its place— The play-ground of the human race— Those insects whom you left to creep And work and laugh and eat and sleep. Perspectives do get twisted quite In making one's initial flight!
But swift! Low bridge! She mounts the loop! You meet the onslaught with a stoop, And with her upward-moving course, You're shoved against her with such force, That little seat you're sticking to Seems fairly crushing into you. Then just as quickly, all has ceased, The sudden impact is released, You clutch to keep from dropping now, You clutch and wonder—marvel how She slowly crawls across the top, She almost stalls—you think she'll stop! You wonder just how long 'twould take To make that trip should something break Or slip, Or should you loose your grip—
And if you'd strike a church or what— Or just some pleasant garden spot;
Perhaps you hope a kindly fate Would cause you to evaporate Into an atmospheric state— A sort of cosmic spirit-thing, And thus take wing, just fluttering, Up toward those pearly portals there, So nonchalant and debonair— Without all that formality Of tumbling first into a tree!
But see! She's found an even keel At last. What joy to feel That level glide—to know you're still On board—until, Oh Lord! Another stunt! You grab, you grunt, But breathe you can't, Her nose has struck a fiendish slant! That chuggy-chug—has it gone dead? Or has the Pilot lost his head? He does not swerve, his aim's exact, He's Hell-bent for that timber-tract! Oh were there ever, ever trees With such a prickly look as these?
They're coming closer up—and see, They're getting sharper—every tree!
Now look! She zooms! Agile she springs Aloft with taut and straining wings. In one great climb she squanders all The power she gathered in her fall; She leaves the woodlands in her wake, She cuts across a marshy lake, And dipping gently, circles round Above the aviation ground, Where field-mechanics stand about To lend a hand and help you out— To ask you how you liked to drop Five thousand feet without a stop, And if the loop was all you thought A loop would likely be or not?
You thank them—tell them all how glad You were to have the ride you had, And then, a trifle limp and white, With some slight loss of appetite, And with two rather wobbly pegs As proxies for your former legs, You kick the turf up with your heel To reassure yourself it's real— A little woozy still you feel,
A little dizzy— And then you take one long, last look—at Lizzie! Thus ends my tale—You've got it straight, The way we teased and tempted fate, Shook off this earthly dust and went Hobnobbing with the firmament.
