Volume 156 — PTERO-DACTYLS.

Dædalus, once in the island of Crete, Finding his host tried to limit his scenery, Foiled in his efforts to flee on his feet, Went and invented some flying machinery; Then, when he thought it was time to make tracks Free from pursuit, for he felt he could dodge any, Brought out his wings, which he fastened with wax, Fitting another pair on to his progeny; So, if the legend to credence can wheedle us, First of air-pilots was old Father Dædalus. Just a few kicks and they're off in full sail (Science of old wasn't hard on her votary, So little mention you find in the tale Made of propeller or joy-stick or rotary); Silently skimming along in the air Spoke the paternal and prototype pioneer, "Mind that your altitude's low, and beware Fiery Phoebus you don't go and fly a-near!" Cautious the counsel, but Icarus flouted it, Flew in the face of his father and scouted it. Lifting his nose in the eye of the sun, Waved he his hand to his wary progenitor; Higher and higher he banked and he spun, Mounting aloft as away from his ken he tore. "Who's this," said Phoebus, "my kingdom affronts? Doubtless, young fellow, your conduct you think witty; I'll find a method of stopping your stunts; Dear shall you pay for precocious propinquity." Forth shot his beams ere the flier detected 'em, Melting the wax on his wings (that connected 'em). Down to the depths of the bottomless sea Icarus crashed with a lightning celerity, Leaving a name for the ages to be. "Ha!" chortled Phoebus, "that comes of temerity." See from the sequel the fitness of things: Nearly forgotten this early adventure is; Phoebus is beaten; Time's whirligig brings Still its revenge in the course of the centuries. Over the sky, from the east to the west of it, Man has decidedly now got the best of it. R.A.F.