Volume 146 — LOOP! LOOP!!

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.