The Aeroplane Speaks. Fifth Edition

Keenly both he and the Observer compare their maps with the country below. The roads, khaki-coloured ribbons, are easily seen but are not of much use, for there are so many of them and they all look alike from such an altitude. Now where can that lake be which the map shows so plainly? He feels that surely he should see it by now, and has an uncomfortable feeling that he is flying too far West. What pilot is there indeed who has not many times experienced such unpleasant sensation? Few things in the air can create greater anxiety. Wisely, however, he sticks to his compass course, and the next minute he is rewarded by a sight of the lake, though indeed he now sees that the direction of his travel will not take him over it, as should be the case if he were flying over the shortest route to his destination. He must have slightly miscalculated the velocity or direction of the side-wind. "About ten degrees off," he mutters, and, using the Rudder, corrects his course accordingly. Now he feels happier and that he is well on his way. The gusts, too, have ceased to trouble him as, at this altitude, they are not nearly so bad as they were near the ground, the broken surface of which does much to produce them; and sometimes for miles he makes but a movement or two of the controls. The clouds just above race by with dizzy and uniform speed; the country below slowly unrolls, and the steady drone of the Engine is almost hypnotic in effect. "Sleep, sleep, sleep," it insidiously suggests. "Listen to me and watch the clouds; there's nothing else to do. Dream, dream, dream of speeding through space for ever, and ever, and ever; and rest, rest, rest to the sound of my rhythmical hum. Droning on and on, nothing whatever matters. All things now are merged into speed through space and a sleepy monotonous d-d-r-r-o-o-n-n-e------." But the Pilot pulls himself together with a start and peers far ahead in search of the next landmark. This time it is a little country town, red-roofed his map tells him, and roughly of cruciform shape; and, sure enough, there in the right direction are the broken outlines of a few red roofs peeping out from between the trees.