From the sky the world is just as beautiful as from the ground, but all
in a different way. Fields and farms become checks and plaids in varied
greens and browns. Stream necklaces and jeweled lakes bedeck the
landscape around. Horizon lines jump back ten leagues, and clouds swim
by in droves. The setting sun may rise again for him who mounts to fly.
Man, groping about in great fields assumes his actual size and
importance in the universe; instead of being the egotistical, dominating
element in an unimportant foreground he shrinks to an atom, and the
eternal infinite engulfs him. I can imagine a future life as a soul
speeding through space, existing upon a sensation, a boundless view, and
a breath of air.
The flying is progressing well. The monitor said tonight that he seldom
had seen a pupil so apt, that I was doing well and would take up
landings tomorrow. Twice today he let me take the aeroplane off the
ground. I’ve had an hour and fifteen minutes of flying now and will soon
catch up with the class, as far as ability is concerned. Our monitor is
a wonderful teacher and a splendid flyer.
I’m just as busy as I care to be. Up at five o’clock; work, six to ten;
lecture, ten to eleven; repose to three; lecture, three to four; work
four to nine. I haven’t had time to mail this letter, but I’ll do it
tomorrow.
Well, I’m simply wild about this life. The country is beautiful;
châteaux abound; pretty farms—but I must go to bed.
Good night,